


A Song of Gods and Men

by Nuvian



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Assassins, F/F, F/M, Faceless Arya, Fictional Religion & Theology, M/M, Romance, The Faceless Men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 21:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8912056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuvian/pseuds/Nuvian
Summary: Arya stays with the faceless men in an alternate universe, and the world is forever changed. *Loads of things are different in this AU than in canon, but hey, that's the fun of fanfiction, isn't it? I do not wish to spoil more about my plans, but stay tuned, loads more are coming. Loads of credit to FayeKNaime, gul and especially Starkyd7, for inspiring me to write this.





	1. No One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first chapter of fanfiction, so please I sincerely hope you enjoy. Again so much credit to Starkyd7, for not only inspiring me, but encouraging me to start my own story. Thank you so much!

"The most cold, hard souls we will ever meet, were all once as soft and pure as water.  
That is the tragedy of living."

The body hit the posh wooden floor with a dull 'thud'. Grey eyes surveyed the room passively, committing the last details of the job to memory. No one made sure she had the documents her order needed and proceeded to arrange the body as desired by the contractor. Assured that everything was in order, she hastily snuck out of the estate before more of the paid guards would have to be incapacitated. Though the guards accepted the payment from the slaver and served him faithfully, it was neither them buying the slaves in the first place, nor was it them who was to receive the gift. Thus, causing as little harm and alert as possible was the ideal.

Cloaked by the shadows, she easily made her way out of the expansive estate. From the back of the house, she quietly made her way to the canals, a soft breeze blowing in the parts of her hair, which was not braided to her crown. The hot sun was slowly setting, casting long shadows across the cobblestone path. No One ran her hand smoothly across the front of her face, the fair, golden features she had used to gain entrance to the estate being replaced with her first appearance. Golden locks and tanned skin, gave way to her own brown in black locks, accompanied by snow-white skin.

Normally, no one would wait to change back to her own appearance till she got back to the House, but since the streets were empty most often than not in this part of town, it hardly mattered. In the end, it would probably be wiser to change to her own face before heading home. One never knew what could happen in the worse parts of the city if there were no faceless around.

Starting down the street, she walked with a gait most citizens of the city would either find enticing or terrifying. The latter being the more likely option. She hastily obtained her rapier from the safe house where she left it before embarking on her mission. Here she changed to her black and white robes from the gaudy dress she sported during her infiltration of the manner.

No One released a contented sigh once she was finally rid of the garment.  _For long, beautiful pieces of silk, they truly are awful things…_  she mused. Though she did not enjoy such garments of finery after all she had been through, such was the life of faceless men. The kindly man's words coming back to her: " _Every disguise is a self-portrait. Thus, a changing of the self is required, to make the painting more refined. Such is the art of the faceless._ " And an art it  _certainly_  was...

After changing into her normal garb, she started down the path across the city.

No one reached the market square after passing the long canal. At the market square, where the merchants would be chanting after any and all till ungodly hours of the night, she made her way towards the isle of gods.  _They all know their kind has coin filled purses._  Though the faceless men had slowly become unfavourable in the eyes of the common life-worshipper, not only were their services needed but so too was their coin desired.

From the isle of the gods, No One started down the bridge which lead to their dichotomous house.

Upon entering the black and white doors marking their sanctum, No One’s master greeted her.

“Valar morghulis.” He offered in his kindly voice.

“Valar dohaeris.” Came the sly reply.

He looked her up and down. Remembering herself, No One retrieved the documents from within her robe and delivered them to her old master.

“You certainly have become proficient since your arrival here.” He offered.

 _A compliment_.

She smirked. “Well given your patience, such would be the eventuality.”

The expression was returned. “You were a man’s worst nightmare, when you first arrived, along with many others’.” He taunted.

“Twice the labour, double profit.” She retorted.

Even though her original cruelty still subsided within her being, it was severely quelled, along with the rest of her former self. But while her original self was locked away in a tight cage, never to be released until bid to do so, her cruelty merely lay dormant, satiated. _Drunk on death_.

“I will leave you to make what you will of the information.”

“Just so.”

She need not fret that she would not be informed of new developments. Was there information, which required her attention, she – along with the other masters – would be informed of such. Her former self would have ranted and raved, demanding to know what knowledge resided within the documents. The defiance, as well as the urgency, had been divided into ever-tinier pieces, and scattered to the wind. _Death tempered her_.

She bowed before her master, “Valar morghulis, elder.” The same sly voice, but with the air of deference which was expected of a ghoul at her age.

“Valar dohaeris, dear prodigy.”              


	2. The White Wolf, The Stranger and The Mother of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt an introduction was required to Arya's position in the world last chapter. Here, we expand on that and check in on a few other characters.

**Jon Snow**  

 

Still in a daze, alive but unaware why; Jon Snow moved as confidently as he could through the keeps of Winterfell. True, he had always felt unwelcome in the keep of Winterfell, as the bastard of the honourable Eddard Stark, but something was different. Something was missing. 

The guards had been positioned where they usually would be, and there was no reason to believe anything to be amiss, but still, he was bothered. He looked out on the battlements gazing over the icy plains that The North consisted of. The sun was rising, still managing to shine through the clouds, giving them a temporary respite from the cold. 

 _It will not be long_ , he thought. Not long till the dead rise in place of the sun all around them, and reign of The Night King will begin. 

Often he pondered on the cruelty of his existence. He had not asked for this. He hadn't desired this. Yet he received it regardless. One would think receiving a crown and being brought back from the dead would fill one's life with excitement, yet the newly crowned King in The North merely felt empty. 

His thoughts refused to give him the answer as of why. He neither felt despair for his lost family nor did he feel joy in returning to his childhood home with Sansa. He was stuck in the middle. _Unfeeling_.   

An angel could fall from the skies to save the known world from the threat beyond the wall, and he would merely shrug. One less burden upon his shoulders. 

Jon Snow pulled himself together. Now was not the time to wallow in misery and ask why. Moving down from the battlements and back into the keep, he resumed his role as the northern king. 

 

* * *

 

 

 **Daenerys Targaryen**  

 

The army travelled slowly. Agonisingly so at times. The grassy, hot plains of central Essos in front of Daenerys Targaryen. It was a sight to behold. _There is a reason they call it the '_ _Dothraki_ _Sea'_ _after all_ _._ The sight filled her with a degree of trepidation. What she wouldn't give to never have to fear again. 

But her brother was no comfort. _He_ _was, many years ago._ _B_ _ut_ _no more, and never again._  She thought dryly. Her brother had slowly but surely become a cruel, power-hungry man. 

She looked back towards the army at her back. _Her brother's army. Bought with her body._  Perhaps it was a contribution factor, to central Essos being known as the Dothraki Sea. The men rode so tightly and in such numbers that it was more a river of man and horse, cutting through the grass plains than the image of an army.  _All depending on one's own preconceptions, of course._

Wishing herself back to a house with a red door, she rode on. 

By the end of the day, her thighs and hands were sore. Anxious hands had gripped the reins of her horse tightly throughout their journey and were now left to scab over, the burning of the rope obvious on her previously pristine hands. _This is going to be a long journey_.

Still having many days of riding, before reaching her 'betrothed', she prayed to all the gods that would listen for mercy. 

 

 

* * *

 

 **No One**  

 

No One was resting in her room when a new presence hesitated at her door. 

Lifting her hand to her pillow, ready for whoever wished entry. 

Honed senses detected a scent that was not her own. _Honey and ginger_. Arya Stark's Handsome man. 

The door soundlessly opened and he strode, quiet as a shadow into her living quarters until he was halted in his step by two sharp wisps of air, and accompanying thuds, as the knives pinned his arms to her wall. 

"You should really learn to knock, dear brother." No One sighed. 

"You don't welcome visitors at night, sister?"  

"Why, that would depend on the purpose of the excursion to my chambers." She mused. 

"Are you planning on releasing me from this predicament, or have I become fitting wall-decoration?" Her brother teased. 

With a purposefully lazy sigh, she gathered herself up from her sprawl on the fabric-covered stone cot she slept upon.  

"You're going soft." He jabbed. 

She merely winked in return, making her way over to her brother. She freed the ornate valyrian steel knives from where they were embedded in the stone wall. _Would be unpractical keeping him there at all hours,_  t _hough he could contribute a fine decoration_.

"So what is this purpose of this late night visit to my chambers? Did you come merely to test my patience?"  She asked, mild amusement in her eyes.

"Not at all. The Elder has called for you; he wishes to speak as soon as possible."

Expelling the air from her lungs, No One equipped her dark robe. She had asked her brother to inform her, whenever her presence was requested. Regardless of the circumstances. Drawing on her disciplined energy and patience she thanked her brother, and bid him goodnight. Their camaraderie had grown immensely since she completed her first trials. There were still more to come, but not a soul except her master knew when or where they would occur. Satisfied with her poisons and daggers, hidden away within her robe, complete with a thin yet wickedly sharp Braavosi rapier hanging at her hip she was ready. No one made her way towards the inner sanctum of the House. Her robe swaying as she walked. The Elder was awaiting her at the pool, his face expressionless.

"Valar morghulis." She greeted him as she entered the sanctum flanked by the stone statues, depicting the various images of death.

"Valar dohaeris, child." The Elder's face was as inscrutable as ever.

 "You summoned me..." She offered, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Yes, the eight have come to a decision, you are to be facing your last trial before you begin the rest of your formal training." An emotion flashed across the Elders' face, but it was gone before she could give it much thought.

"A girl is not re..." She began to protest, yet before she could finish the sentence, her head was tilted back.

A liquid ran effortlessly down her throat, she need not even swallow it. She fell to her knees looking behind her, seeing her sister nod at her master.

Her veins flared, and a drop of blood escaped her nose. _Poison._

The poison impaired her limbs, making them numb. With her limbs unusable, she fell to the cold hard floor. She struggled to breathe, as agony washed over her body like waves beating against the stones surrounding Braavos, damming in the tides. The poison was like none other she had ever known before. Tremors began to course through her body in waves, the epicentre of which being her midsection. Her heart raced, and she looked upon her master. He wore _that_   _expression_. The expression used to pity those seeking solace and peace by the pool just inside the black and white doors. _Anger, hatred, despair._ All these emotions coursed through her mind as her eyes glazed over. 

 _Is this the end, then?_  Her curiosity inquired. _No, never!_  The mental prison she had built to contain the defiance of her former self, quavered by the anger of the captured direwolf within.

No One wanted to scream off the top of her lungs, yet when she opened her mouth, not a sound left her convulsing body. She could see the blood in her arms darkening, feel the blood in her veins begin to clot, and inch by inch, darkness consumed her vision...

 

 

* * *

 

**The Elder**

 

It was painful seeing his student in such a way. _It always is_. He chided himself. Seeing anyone in such agony as was currently running through his student should send anyone into despair. Yet he also felt guilty. The girl knew the trials are dangerous, yet she was not expecting such torment to come at the hands of one from their order, least of all now.

Though her lips were turning blue, she still thrashed in his arms when he picked her up. He carried her to the table made ready for her and bound her there. Brothers and sisters of the order came regularly to clean off the sweat trickling down her face. The Waif checked on her often, taking note of her condition as her body faced fevers and other afflictions put upon it by the potent poison.

He chided himself for his attachment, yet he could not help but hope the young girl would make it through the trial. Few did. She had certainly become an asset. Not only that, she had become popular within the temple. _It would be a shame for such a promising student to be cut short._  The girl had suffered much in her lifetime. Always searching for a place to belong, a place to fit in. Never finding it.

The easiest thing, for all parts, would have been to never take her in. The defiance, the blind faith coupled with optimism. While those were admirable qualities, they were no use in understanding suffering. And such were the dealings of the faceless men. This is the reason that the students of the Braavosi order are blinded. Not the faith, but the emotion, the restlessness. They all contribute to a lack of understanding; and when dealing in the arts of magic, a lack of understanding is a weakness. 

The girl and the Braavosi have a lot in common, yet there is an understanding regarding the nature of the world, not seen in the students of Bravos. The students Lorath know the world by reflecting it within themselves. Thereby gaining an understanding of not only the nature of the subject in question but the motive, the cause, and effect. With a clearer understanding of the world, magic becomes exponentially more powerful. The Braavosi do not relate to the world, and it's reasons. They look upon it, they react judge and then act based on their judgment.

He was broken out of his reverie by the comely faced brother. They still had urgent matters to attend to. The world was shifting, and so the faceless must adjust. Such was the way their order had survived for centuries after all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of dark one, but more lightheartedness will come, rest assured. Also, a tremendous shout-out to FayeKNamie is required for the philosophical inspiration I have applied in this chapter (couldn't resist).
> 
> It is unlikely I will be able to update the story tomorrow, but I'll attempt to get another chapter out ASAP.  
> Thank you so much for reading, as well as all the supportive comments I've received on the last chapter. Hope it was worth the wait!


	3. Visions of Darkness

**Arya Stark**

 

As pain continually washed over her, she kept screaming although no sound escaped her mouth. Until it did. As her voice echoed around her, her pain was gone. She got up from where she lay upon the House's steps. She was clad in her robe with all her equipment on her person. Confused, she made her way into Braavos. She passed the isle of the gods, slowly making her way into central Braavos, her robes swaying silently with her movements. The amount of statues and elegant frescos depicting the different religions practised in Braavos, slowly giving way to splitting canals with running water. Shop and carriages always lined the streets calling out any and all potential customers. Passing the merchants, she felt calm. Serene. Yet, something was different. Something nagged at her mind. For some reason unknown to her, she was not called at nor offered anything from where she walked.

A clumsy drunk patron stumbled out of one of the inns lining Braavos' streets. He stumbled toward her, about to fall. She braced herself, ready to catch him when he stumbled the rest of the way. As expected, the man tripped over his own legs, yet when she reached out to catch him, he merely fell through her grasp. Staring at the man, then her own hands, then back to the man. The man was picked up by fellow Bravos and carried back into the inn. In helping the drunkard, the helpers reached through where she sat, still attempting to make sense of the situation.

It has finally happened. I've gone mad. She thought to herself. Looking around, the day continued on, as any day in Braavos would. Bravos strutted around in feather-tipped caps and long, flowing, colourful garbs. All eager to pick a fight. A Seablade readied himself to arrest them. She threw a knife at one who was very insistent on battling a merchant selling candied apples, who refused to give the Bravos his apple for the afforded price. The knife whirred through the air, as it was supposed to do, yet when it should have landed in his throat, right at his pulse, the knife merely kept on flying, planting itself into the nearest wall.

Disbelief washed over her, as her eyes glistened with more tears she refused to shed. A special scent intermingled in the air around her, different from the sweaty common people, and vastly in contrast to the salty sea breeze, fish and spices defining the marketplace of Braavos. A crucial smell. One she had missed. Ginger and cloves. Happiness washed over her for a second until she remembered her predicament. He strode to the shop selling the candied apples. He picked one of the apples on display and strode over to where she was seated. He smirked at her as if he could see her.

He slid down on the wall, next to where she had seated herself in her anguish. "Don't mope such, lovely girl. It is entirely unbecoming of you." Her eyes widened and a single tear escaped her eyes.

"Jaqen?" She questioned, hoping her madness would give her temporary respite. He handed her the candied apple. His lopsided smirk and red hair coupled with a silver streak. All there. Just as she remembered him.

"Indeed," he responded as she took a bite of the treat on offer. "A man had business to tend to. He still does."

"I have gone mad." She concluded, her tone flat. "What is happening to me, Jaqen? People are falling through me, objects I throw won't strike people..." She trailed off as disbelief washed over her again. He merely chuckled.

"Leave it to Arya Stark to throw knives at the Braavosi people, if she cannot touch them." She was angered by him not taking her concerns seriously, yet the humour of it couldn't escape her. That is until she realised what he was actually saying.

"Arya Stark is dead." She interrupted her own chuckling. She normally struggled constantly, to stay within the personality of No One. Arya Stark writhed within the mental prison she had built for her, every time at any reference to either Arya Stark herself, or anyone associated with the name.

"Not here." He said, his tone flat. "This is where a girl will leave Arya Stark behind. Mostly. Not even The God can contain the entirety of Arya Stark." He said, considering.

"What is the place?" She questioned. She was genuinely curious.

"This is a dream, yet more. A vision, yet not as prophetic. A sacrifice, yet not as twisted. A ceremony... perhaps." His sly voice cryptically answered.

"That is not an answer to my question," she complained, before remembering herself, "and you know it." She blamed as her brows furrowed.

Sighing he gave in to her demand for answers. Though most of her curious nature had entered the god's domain, she was reacquainted with it here.

"Give up everything. Once and for all. A girl's hopes and dreams. Her loves and hates. All that makes a girl who she is. And a man will see to it that you find peace within yourself." His sly voice almost giving way to a voice more solemn and serious. "At least as much as the god will have..." he trailed off.

"This is my final trial then?" She question. She was affirmed by a submissive nod of the head.

"Follow a man, he has many things to show you." His previously – almost solemn voice, returning to his usual sly and secretive tone. Wolfing down the last of the apple Jaqen offered her, she rose smoothly from the ground with her older idol. It did not take long for Arya Stark to idealise Jaqen, the girl she had become still sometimes did. The feeling of safety and comfort he had offered, when she was so fragile was invaluable.

Starting their walk together through Braavos, the passed the markets and followed the canals past the inns, brothels and residencies that littered the streets. The sound of the rushing water, originating from the sea, intermingling with the shouts and yells from already drunk sailors, patrons and travellers from all corners of the known world. As they walked past the inns, her hands twitched in an urge to share coin with the beggars of the city - especially the blind ones. She knew from first-hand experience the troubles of being blind in a city such as Braavos. Yet most did not have a cats eyes to turn to, when it comes to planning a navigation route. They had only sound and feel. Naturally, she had learned to herself to overcome her lack of sight, yet the frustration of not being aware what lay ahead until object were within hearing distance, still nagged her sometimes.

She remembers falling into one of the canals one time. As she was losing all hope, having no idea where surface or the bottom lay. The canals were awfully deep at the neighbourhood she had picked to carry out the begging the house required her to. One of the wealthier ones, she remembered. As she was at the point of giving up, she remembers smooth elegant hand gripping her arms, helping her to the surface. Once she had been hauled up from the canal at the lady's effort, she had been handed a cloak as well as a gold dragon. As she was hauled away, her brother admonishing her for her generosity, she gazed through the eyes of a wandering cat to discover the source of her rescue. Her saviour had been the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, more beautiful than Sansa even, she had thought at the time. Her slightly sun-tanned, fair-skinned body, curving slightly around her more feminine features, only to give way to silver hair and purple eyes. She had noted the face in her memory, for if they were to ever meet again, she would repay the debt.

After walking a few miles, her patience gradually grew thin.

"Where are we going?" She questioned. Arya looked about the square they were passing. She noticed a preacher of the red god, a stern-faced man in a long red robe, spreading the message of how obscene and unnatural the so-called 'den of ghouls' was. As he chanted for their capture and 'purification' by flames on a pyre in the name of the glorious god that is R'hllor.

"Somebody should end his misery before he does any real damage," Jaqen said, pointing at the man in question. "Perhaps a girl should go to her handsome man, and explain the predicament him. His name is Ambraysis Orantrys, he will understand."

Arya Stark nodded in affirmation. She understood the significance of Jaqen's words, yet was still left confused. _How and why is this one man a threat?_

"We are headed toward the old hall of masters. The one built before the house itself." Jaqen answered her, as they descended down a short staircase to a lower level on the cobblestone paths. She had never heard of the hall in question, though it made sense. The faceless men had to have some stowaway before their enormous house was built. They reached a small alley with large, elevated houses surrounding them. The houses cast large shadows down onto the path upon which they were walking, almost making it seem night at midday. The reached a dead end, the houses on either side of the small path, converging together in an enormous stone wall in front of them. Jaqen walked into the left-hand corner of the square created by the converging walls and with practised ease, found a loose stone in a seemingly random place in the wall. A couple twists and pushes later, a small door swung open to the side of where Jaqen stood.

Jaqen signalled her to enter. The narrow pathway that the stone wall gave way to, was illuminated by torches, and upon her and Jaqen's entry, the door shut behind them. The walked together down the narrow path, slowly winding down and to the right. Once they escaped the circular corner, Arya found herself surrounded by a large, circular room. The room was adorned with symbols and patterns, littering both the floor, the walls as well as the ceiling. The patterns ranged from diagonal lines, checkerboards and circles with frills on the edges. The circle was painted in colours ranging from a bleak grey, midnight blue and crimson red. In the middle of the room lay a circle, the circumference made in iron, with the hooded man of the faceless men adorning the middle.

She was guided by Jaqen to the middle. The circumference of the circle seemed to match that of a person stood upright, in the middle. Gathering her courage around herself like a cloak, Arya Stark squared her shoulders and looked Jaqen H'ghar in the eyes. Bronze meeting grey as she stood, unwavering. "A girl is ready," she told him. There was no going back after this point, her elder master had said so long ago.

Jaqen sighed, looking up from the ground where his eyes had drifted to and looked her in the eyes once more. "What does a girl have to offer?" He questioned.

She did not allow herself to be surprised and sorted through her mind. What did she have to give? "Three things," she started, "Arya Stark's face." _One_.

"A most useful thing, for the many-faced god and his servants." Jaqen allowed.

"Arya Stark's childhood sword, needle." _Two._

"One bearing much emotional value for Arya Stark, yes?" Jaqen questioned. She affirmed his inquiry by a quick nod of her head.

"And a direwolf named Nymeria. She can be both the god's eyes in the Riverlands of Westeros, as well as his predator if need be." _Three_.

"A direwolf of the North..." Jaqen mused. "A most handsome dowry," he commended her as tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. Though she had let go of her loyalty, her pride, her dignity a long time ago. She still felt her heart tremble at her actions.

Sensing that his lovely girl was finished, Jaqen laid a hand on her back. Supporting her as she slowly let go of the things that bound her, held her back. Arya Stark quietly sobbed as she felt the things that bound her, that kept her rage going, slowly ebb away. Her hatred and vengefulness slowly draining from her chest, leaving an emptiness reigning in her chest. Yet it was not the emptiness she felt before as her father was executed, or when her brother's headless body was paraded around The Twins. It was a pleasant humming emptiness, leaving her calm, serene, with a wish for a purpose. With the anger she had been holding back for so long, so too did her sobs seize to plague her.

"Thank you, Jaqen." She whispered. Jaqen leant in and captured her lips with his own. It was as chaste, as chaste could be. He placed a hand upon the back of her head. A darkness began to flow from Jaqen's hand into the girl who was once Arya Stark. The darkness flowed through the back of her head, around in her face, painting her eyes black in black. It moved through the rest of her body, consuming her until she could take no more, yet the darkness kept coming.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **The Waif**  

 

She sat next to Arya Stark's body. The young girl had stopped retching some watches ago, so positioning near her body was safe. Even though her blood had stopped flowing, she still blinked occasionally behind her eyelids. She would still be in the god's domain. The elder of their order walked down the staircase leading to the small cell in which the girl had been placed and joined her in cleaning off the girl's body. This would be the 5th watch she had spent keeping the girl in check. She was usually the one to watch the acolytes who imparted on the final trial. Very, very few survived the last trial. This was why so few Lorathi faceless men existed, yet the elder was confident the girl would make it.

As they finished cleaning the girl in silence with washcloths, darkness began to pool around her eyes. A smile crept upon the elder's face as darkness coursed through the young student, painting her cold blood black. The girl's veins stood out through her body, yet instead of crying out as darkness filled her veins, all that left the girls mouth was a quiet sigh. With a jerk of her body, the girl's heart started again as if it had never seized to beat. 

The darkness came in waves as her blood alternated from black to crimson red, and finally... white. Both the masters' brows furrowed as he lifted her eyelids to discover her eyes alternating in rhythm with her blood, yet instead of crimson, the transition colour was grey. The two masters took a step back, giving the girl space, and with another jerk of her body and a sharp intake of breath, her eyes opened once more.

 

 

* * *

 

  **No One**

 

 No One woke up with a start, surprised to find the sister who administered the poison as well as her master, stood over her with furrowed brows and worried looks between themselves. Covered only by thin strips of cloth, she crossed her arms as she sat up and was offered a glass of water. Her throat was parched, so the liquid was more than welcome. Once she had regained her voice, she looked her master in the eye. Once she would have been shrunk back onto the cot, on which she lay due to her Westerosi upbringings on clothing or lack thereof. Although Arya Stark had never been shy, a sense of comfort was nevertheless taken from being surrounded by soft fur.

Such obstacles were meaningless to the woman she had become. Grey eyes looked at the small room in which she had been placed. Not very different from the rooms where bodies were cleaned before their faces were taken. She looked upon the ground, from which she was elevated. Her nostrils could detect a faint whiff of blood, coupled with a slightly stronger trace of vomit. Judging by the taste in her mouth, she had been the culprit.

A dark brow rose at No One's masters who still looked inquisitively at each other, she started, "I have much to tell, yet even more questions..." 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that took some time to get out. I apologise for the long wait, but this had to turn out as I wished it to, and still I had to cut some things off for the sake of continuity.
> 
> I hope the chapter was enjoyable, it was certainly long than usual! Regardless there are tonnes of mysteries here left be resolved later. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read and review, It is truly a pleasure!


	4. Training, conspiracy and rituals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. I am so very sorry for taking so long to write this. I even wanted to add another section to this, yet the chapter turned long and I thought you good readers deserved an update.
> 
> Life had a way of disturbing me every time I sat down to write, so if there are some mistakes here and there, I apologise.
> 
> Thank you, regardless, for both your support, your patience and reading! Hope it was worth the wait.

 

 

**No One**

 

_"I have much to tell, yet even more questions..."_

"We know, child." Her elder offered a smile for his student. He gave a fleeting look towards No One's sister, before signalling for her to follow him. The Elder led her to a small room to the right of the medical chamber, in which she had taken residence during her trial. Apparently, this was where her robe, breeches, boots and weapons were placed, following her consumption of the poison. Once all her daggers had been strapped to her body, her midnight blue acolytes robe once again adorning her shoulders, she made her way out of the chamber to follow the Elder once more.

No One was mildly surprised when her poisonous sister followed in tow. This conversation was apparently not supposed to be private. She would have to kerb the details a little, after all. The elder had long since learnt of her affection for the face belonging to the man who saved her, time and again during her life as Arya Stark.

 

After walking up a long flight of stairs, they arrived at The Hall of Masters. She noticed there were five other faceless men present. Some she had seen before, the handsome man included among them. _A sly Lorathi conspicuously absent,_ she noticed. _Well, he did say he had business to attend._

The Elder motioned for her to sit in what she could only presume was their Lorathi brother's seat at the round table. Taking her seat between The Handsome Man and The Waif, No One looked upon the table, strangely similar to the floor on which Arya Stark had died.

The Elder broke the silence that had filled the room after everyone had shuffled into their seats. "As you all may know by now, we have a new master in the order." He started. She looked up from the table, halting her architectural admirations to return the look sent her way. Seeing as she did not shrink back at the looks she was sent, the masters reclined their head in her general direction. A show of respect.

"Yes, fortunately, our senses have not been dulled. Pray tell, what did you see."

"We wandered around Braavos together for a while. He pointed out a man called Ambraysis Orantrys. It seems he is in need of receiving the gift. He explained you would understand." She said in a quiet voice turning to The Handsome Man. This statement seemed tp cause a spark to run through The Hall of Masters, igniting hushed whispers in the corners of the room. A stern, reprimanding gaze silenced the unwelcome gossip quickly. _It seems even lorathi masters have their faults._  She contemplated. The Handsome Man's eyes widened at the girls earlier words and looked towards the Elder as if waiting for confirmation. The Elder nodded towards The Handsome Man in return, urging him to take action.

At this, The Handsome Man rose, pushing his chair out from the table, and quickly departed from the Hall of Masters. The elder signalled for her to continue.

"We walked for a long while, not speaking until we took the path to the old Hall of Masters. Other than that, all there was left was the sacrifice." She purposefully avoided their romantic escapade following. _That will be a revelation for another time._  She decided. In a house of assassins, information was power.

The masters nodded amongst themselves. With the vow of _Valar Dohaeris_ , they dispersed throughout the temple once again. All except the Elder, who stayed behind. He looked upon his student fondly. It was always a special thing when a new lorathi was born.

"That leaves only one thing before you can continue your training." He explained. _The scar_. One all faceless men had, and all of them were different. That, along with their title, were the only things that differentiated the Lorathi members of The Faceless Men.

She smiled at her teacher. For many fortnights a girl named Arya Stark had resented the man, yet the woman who stood in her place had come to appreciate the patience he had shown, despite her juvenile actions.

 

Together they headed down a staircase, towards The Hall of Faces. As the staircase slowly wound down in the temple, a strange sense of awareness washed over her. She could not pinpoint what it was she felt, yet it was something entirely new. They walked together in the expansive hall until they reached a door built into one of the pillars. Upon opening the door, revealing yet another circling staircase leading to a small ceremonial chamber. _Faceless Men and their circular stairs_ , noticing the pattern.

Upon entering the ceremonial chamber, she found The Waif stood near an altar, the altar holding a long, symmetrical, ceremonial dagger. The altar was a small stand elevated by a cylinder of obsidian where the knife lay on display. Both of the edges of the blade were slightly curved on both sides of the weapon converging into the tip at the middle. It was evident the blade was wickedly sharp, even from her vantage point. It was a dagger designed for the avoidance of pain, abnegating the receiver, the knowledge of their cut before the blood would start flowing. Behind the small platform was a fresco depicting the different faces of Death. _There is beauty in death_. It was not the natural beauty of which the bards would sing. It was not the beauty observed in a sunset, a lush forest, not even in the wonder of a snowy tundra. It was beautiful in a quiet, melancholic, mysterious way. Bards would never sing songs of the beauty of death, for the beauty in and of itself escaped the mind's comprehension as soon as it appeared. 

The dagger in and of itself was beautiful. It was black glowing faintly in the torchlight. Upon closer inspection, the blade revealed curving lines adorning the dagger, where pitch black gave way to purple.

The girl who was once Arya Stark, knelt in front of the altar, as The Elder took the knife from where it lay on display. She closed her eyes and muttered the oath binding words of _Valar Dohaeris._ She felt only the blood as it began to flow over her features, the tang of metal assaulting her nostrils. The girl opened her eyes, observing the elder cleaning the ceremonial tool. From her right, The Waif brought with her a piece of cloth to clean the blood off her face. Looking into a mirror, she could already see the blood beginning to clot around the wound, slowly forming her own, distinctive scar.  _Marked as death's own._

Following the ritual, the trio made their way upwards in the temple. She had only ever been allowed on the main level and the lower floors. She had always been curious as to what lay beyond the doorway heading upwards, yet she had always thrown her curiosity to the wind. After a girl named Arya Stark's vengeful murder of a Westerosi knight, she had learned discipline the hard way.

Graceful feet passed through large, soundproof, wooden doors on the 2nd floor, she was confronted by an orchestra of voice, low and high alike. The complete antithesis of what the girl was used to on the lower levels. The hall contained an amount of inhabitants one could expect from central Braavos at midday.

A dark brow rose at her older peers, only to have the expression returned. 

Milling through the options that had presented themselves, joining in on the banquet seemed the most ideal. She sat at a wide table, adorned with food, drink and laughter. She shuffled through personalities fit for the company she was joining. She analysed the expressions, the conversation going on around her. Open, bawdy... gossip.

_The Braavosi..._

A smirk danced on her features as she easily slid into the conversation going on around her. Most of it mindless boasting and swagger, though there were occasional conversations delving into more complex and paradoxical subjects. _Best not join in, appearance is everything. For now._  She reigned in her restraint as she made sure everyone around the table grasped the level of her skill with a sabre.

There was a conversation however, that seemed to draw everyone in. Herself included, for more reason than one.

"Haven't you heard? Apparently, a new Lorathi has been ordained!" A voice in thick Braavosi exclaimed.

Hushed tones and murmurs alike were brought with the exclamation, filling the hall gradually. "Why the secrecy?" she asked a young, blonde haired boy sat to her right. The boy was hardly more than 12 summers if his face was to be believed. He still had the frantic look, the impeccable curiosity which came with youth. The same mentality that eroded with age.

He looked at her. Blue eyes roaming over her scar, and his face gradually illuminating with excitement. It took a few seconds before his wondrous look gave way to thoughtfulness and eventually, secrecy. He rose o sit upon his knees to whisper in her ear. "The Lorathi lot are not to be trusted. That 'Kindly man' of theirs have kept steady streams of acolytes to take the place of the 9th. It seems he has finally found his 'price student'." his voice dropped from secrecy to mocking, before returning to secrecy to finish his sentence. "You ask me, it is all Lorathi illusion."

A dark brow rose at the young acolyte. She looked him in the eye, as the boy's confession ran through her thoughts.  _Brothers in name only, it seems. Some unification might be fitting._  

"You would think me, an illusion?" She asked the young boy, a smirk dancing once again on her features.

She allowed the look of shock to slowly appear on the acolyte's face, as he wore his emotion on his face like a flamboyant water dancer's garb. His shock giving way to embarrassment and eventually fear. "You are..." he started.

"No One." She finished for him. "And who might you be?"

He humbled himself before her, bowing his head with wide eyes glancing up. "I am Rasco."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Ambraysis Orantrys**

 

His horse trod its way through the grassy plains. It was a dull sight, to say the least. It had been a few weeks since he left Braavos, and R'hllor help him, it was dull. The constant canter of the horse as it made its way through the endless, grassy plains that made up The Dothraki Sea was not exactly entertaining. Patience was never a virtue for the red priests. Patience was for _Him_ and his deathly ghouls.

The ghouls had been opposing them for centuries. And while the opposition by the ghouls was a passive one, it was of a significance which could not be accepted. The opposition would soon end. He would see their house crumble before he would decide on any other course of action. Much was left to be done.

 

Riding into a small cave to the side of a mountain he had been shadowing, he dismounted his horse and started a fire with a flick of his wrist. The firewood which he had brought easily caught on fire and the cave was illuminated. It was a damp moist place, the cave. Not much different from the foggy streets of Braavos. 

He scratched his beard as he felt the fire start to warm the environment around him. He only had to wait for a couple of minutes before his guest arrived. In that time he had prepared some of the provisions he had brought with him. Two goblets of wine, for pleasantry, and a few slices of bread with cream. It was not much, yet it would have to do. Eating is a necessity for all things living, after all.

The cantering of hooves against dirt slowly approached the small cave. A woman entered the cave. She truly blended in among the savages. Her hair was greasy and unruly, her skin darkened by hours upon hours of riding and walking in the hot sun. Her clothes were ragged and even though she travelled through the Dothraki Sea, she still managed to remain obese.

"Ambraysis?" The woman called out. Her accent rough and unrefined. _Oh, she was good._  Looking through the cave, the woman quickly found him. She sat down on the woollen blanket and pillows which he had lain upon the ground.

"Mirri Maz Durr," Ambraysis greeted the woman, "everything is going according to plan. Soon, the dragon shall have wings." Enthusiasm and trepidation of the victory to come slowly spread through the cave, in unison with the heat from the fire.

As the conversation and planning went on throughout the nights two phials of herbs and medicine exchanged hands. One meant for curing illness replaced by one which brought it. 

 

Unbeknownst to the pair, the shadows themselves - as well as that which resided within - had loyalties which resided with the lagoon rather than the port. 

_The bastard daughter of Valyria, over the shadow._

When daybreak finally came, and The Dothraki Sea was painted in the crimson of morning, so too was the cave plastered with the same shade.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**The Lorathi**

 

It was time. Time to return to the place he belongs. He had been stalling at this place for far too long. Though time was nothing for the faceless, urgent matter require his attention. And there were... other things. Many complications. New faceless ones, increasing conflict within their own, red priests, old enemies - on both sides of the narrow sea, even.

 

Libraries are no place for faceless men.

_False._

Everywhere is a place for the faceless men.

 

Nevertheless, he admonished himself for dawdling at the citadel. The 9th had slipped through his fingers. _Was his lovely girl_ _ready?_  He should have been there like he promised his lovely girl when they parted.

_He was not there._

His guilt seemed to chorus through his mind. He should really reallocate his focus. _The girl passed the test._  It was not possessiveness, but guilt. Guilt for not keeping his promise. 'If the time comes when you must find me again, bring that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him; Valar Morghulis.' Arya Stark never found the Lorathi, she found peace before he found her. Lorathi ones pride themselves on the fulfilment of promise and contract. The Lorathi - himself - was no exception to this rule. Rather he was the example of why the rule was such in the first place. Same concepts applied for The God; Valar Morghulis - Valar Dohaeris. Promises and contracts both, in and of themselves.

He reflected his situation into his environment, then back into himself, thus mirroring himself to find the ideal face for the predicament he was left in. There was much left to consider. The god had taken all He could from the girl. But how much could He take? _So many unknowns_. How fares the temple in his absence? Was The God handling the red priests? The God had been busy for some time he had noticed. This coincided with the 9th's ascension, and thus completed the circle. Yet how did that leave the order?

He had seen where the girl would go, had it not been for the god's intervention. 

He had to stop. He had become too distracted, too absorbed. A man named Pate's personality was starting to bleed through as his attention was diverted to everywhere and anywhere but himself. This was a place of distraction. Somewhere to get lost and never find oneself afterwards. So much literature, so much psychology, philosophy and reason. So much, that few individuals could escape the place.

 

He meditated for a day and a night, and his focus, his introspection, the self-reflection, the sly scheming lorathi all made their way back to him. Recentralized, he could focus on what really mattered. Gathering everything he had acquired, book and artefacts alike, he prepared the last deeds that need be done. He had made all the necessary preparations to cover his tracks. Although his focus left him, he never seized to stay low and unknown. 

He arrived at the tavern where Pate and his connections would dine their last supper. A tip of a small unseen phial ensured that by morning none would be aware what happened. The drop of liquid from the phial landed as it was bid, in the wine. Only he and Maester Tarly would never partake in beverage, yet the Nights Watchman had left earlier that week. Once everyone had partaken in the drink and celebrated the contract which they had signed, the small company went well into their cups. Unfavourable so. Luckily, for the maesters, they would not live down the night such that they may face the consequences the next morning.

 

As the maesters were found the next morning, a lorathi was aboard a ship. Two words hanging in the captain's ears.

_Valar Morghulis._

 

* * *

 

 

**No One**

 

After the feast, No One efficiently made her way to her quarters. Grey eyes widened as she happened upon a new robe lying upon her bed. Equipping the garments, she studied herself in the looking glass. The set was midnight-blue intermingled by black and white with a hood hanging low over her face.

A black shortcloak partly winding around her body, hiding the close-fitting tunic which stopped just above the knees. With the set were a black pair of leather boots reaching her calf and a black pair of pants sewn together in white thread which hung tightly to her hips.

It was strange. The outfit sat tightly on her body, yet it somehow allowed full movement of her body. The most intriguing part of her new wardrobe, however, was the belt. The belt was of thick black leather, having many compartments and small pouches. It was a swordbelt capable of holding three swords. One at her right hip, designed for a rapier, and two at the back. The scabbards at the back of the belt were designed for shortswords, their holsters sitting opposite from one another, allowing the user to draw a sword in each hand.

The scabbards at the back of the belt were designed for shortswords, their holsters sitting opposite from one another, allowing the wielder to draw a sword in each hand.

On her table, she found the instruments which would reside within her new belt. All of them  _Valyrian steel_.

 

Quick, graceful feet brought her hastily to the training room. The weapons weighed nothing at all. Like a wisp of wind materialised and sharpened impossibly. The blades cut through the skin of her finger when she attempted to test them for their sharpness. She was not aware of her cutting save the sticky red water spilling from her fingertip. _All men are made of water._

Merciless slashes, cuts and stabs hit the forever unsuspecting training dummies. The blades slid through the air leaving only faint wisps of air before striking the wood, the blade strangely not dulling though both force, time and wear was exerted on the metal. Though she was inexperienced with the dual wielding of blades, she began to build the muscle memory required.

"Enjoying ourselves?" A quiet voice asked from the temple's shadows.

"These are extraordinary." Her voice returned, admiration intermingling with slyness. No One marvelled at glimmering blades resting in her hands. The blades shimmered in the training room torchlight, reflecting light around the room. In the middle of the blades, a close inspection revealed small glowing runes which ran from the base of the blade to its tip, creating streaking lines of dark purple across the sides. _Death itself flowed in tandem with the blades_. 

The Kindly Man emerged from the shadows, appraising his apprentice. His face was golden in the torchlight lighting up the room. The house is usually lit with dozens of small candles, yet the training room required more lighting than the remainder of the house. The girl was unusually talented for someone who just picked up dual wielding. It seems his instincts served him well; the girl was ambidextrous. Although anyone could be taught to dual wield, it would never come naturally to one who is not of such talent by nature. His mind made up, he went on.

"You will have to take good care of them. They are some of the house's finest treasures." At this, her eyes gazed once again in wonder at the instruments now at her disposal and quickly nodded her assent. The swords were relics of Old Valyria, seldom wielded as a result of their ancient and tragic history. Yet the girl seemed an appropriate wielder, and the blades chorused in agreement if the runes were to be believed. 

Most were treated to discomfort by the mere vicinity of the blades and upon physical touch, pain. Yet in the possession of the girl, the blades seemed placated. _Dark things commune with one another,_  Death had once told him. _When they do, it is beyond the understanding of anyone who is not of the same fabric. As if fire should understand the intricacies of water._

"A faceless man may forget to sleep, to drink, even to breathe. Yet a faceless man never forgets to care for his blade."

"Just so."

He turned and walked towards the portal leading to the living quarters. Glancing back at her, he finished. "From this day, you will train with The First Sword, when you're services and duties do not otherwise occupy your time."

 

With the words of The Kindly Man, she made her way out in the foggy streets of evening Braavos. Walking over The Canal of Heroes and past The Moon Pool, she reached the Sealord's Palace. Here, she was met by one Qarro Volentin in the courtyard.

"Valar Morghulis, young death." Qarro Volentin welcomed. His garb was not of the usual of the water dancers. More conservative. _Simple._  This was a man who did not need flamboyant colours in order to draw attention. His confidence lay with his blade, rather than his wardrobe. 

"Valar Dohaeris, First Sword." Death's servant retorted with a differential bow of the head. She had chosen a standard rapier for her training, it would not do to have the advantage of rune and Valyrian steel.

Qarro Volentin did not know what to expect from the ghoul, much less one of her statue. She was by all account what one would describe as a courtesan, had it not been for her garb and scar. She was still growing into her beauty. Had it not been for her station, she could have made a fortune. The scar was a small one, compared to what ghouls usually adorned; this one's scar merely ran from her forehead to her jaw. On the rare occasion of meeting a ghoul in their own face, they would usually have an angry scar diagonally across their face.

The scar did not detract from her strange beauty, it merely reinforced her defiant appeal. Judging from her age and statue, he did not expect her to be exceptionally skilled. Her Westerosi appearance did little to help his expectation as well, yet the girl earned her scar regardless. Not only that, her eyes told a different story than the rest of her appearance. While the body was still young, the eyes seemed ancient as time itself. Grey eyes that had seen much more than was due. She seemed to notice his assessment of her and raised a dark eyebrow.

"Walk with me?" He offered. It seemed she was merely waiting for his lead, as she quickly nodded and followed in his step. As they were exciting the courtyard, he decided to probe her.

"Have you any experience with the dance?"

"Naturally," She retorted. "The House would seldom send an acolyte who could not be taught." A smirk danced on her mouth as she finished her sentence. "Such would do little good to its already muddied reputation."

He nodded in return, offering unnecessary sympathy for the stigma the servants of Death received. No being deserved such treatment. _Not even No One._

As they walked past The Iron Bank, they decided to duel alongside the other water dancers around The Moon Pool. As they drew their rapiers - sizing each other up - the other water dancers stopped in their skirmishes and a quiet fell upon them. They circled around one another, slowly prodding the other part for weaknesses to exploit. The girl was good, her stance was passive yet ready. Her feet were quick, graceful and silent as the grave. Not even her robes and additional swords made a sound.

Not a sound was heard till their blades clashed, the girl on the attack. She was quicker than he had expected. Quicker and stronger. Her muscles were deceptively small, packing a much harder punch than they should. Her movements were quick, agile and smooth as she transitioned from cut to slash then stab.

He bided his time until the moment was right. Upon his riposte, he started his counterattack, pushing back the girl who had previously been on the offence. The girl knew both the ways of attack, as well as those to defend - it seemed. He increased the pace, both his feet and his blade moving faster as they circled The Moon Pool, making their way towards The Sweetwater River. They danced around each other, changing all the while from attacking to defending. From advance to retreat. They changed, they spun and adjusted as their blades whirred through the air filling the air with wisps of silver and small whirrings only offered for the observant before being drowned out by innumerable clashes. The sound of steel meeting steel dominating the swish of air giving way to a sharp edge.

Doors swung open and audiences amassed from the Blue Lantern, as well as from the water dancers which were already present at the start of the duel. Slowly rumour spread around and eventually the square was filled with Braavosi from far and wide. Coin traded hands as bets were placed and astonished eyes looked in unison upon the exchange of blows happening before them.

_A ghoul challenging The First Sword_

This was a first. Something that riled up every thrillseeking Braavosi. The duel was intense beyond measure, longer than any duel previously seen by The Moon Pool, and by the end, both combatants were bloodied. As the cheers and chants died down and the crowd slowly dispersed, The First Sword stood victorious.

"I lost..." The ghoul proclaimed. The proclamation was so passive one might have mistaken it for a comment regarding the weather. The First Sword offered her his hand. She accepted his offer raising herself from where she was driven to kneel before him.

"You did," he acknowledged, "but not without dignity."

No One offered her new mentor a kind smile before disappearing into the foggy night.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has opened some of the conflicts we will be delving into. There is much more going on than it seems. The time is a tad bit wonky for this one. The section with Ambraysis and Mirri Maz Duur is much longer than the others. That one takes place over a week, yet the others are within 1-2 days. This can be seen by the plural of nights. I would have written more, but I wanted to keep it brief and vague to inspire thought and theory in your minds! Much more fun, that way.  
> Many more revelations and secrets are coming, don't you worry!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! Thank you regardless for reading, hope you enjoyed.


	5. Rules of Nature

AN: Hey all, sorry it's been so long. Have had some horrible illness lately coupled with loads of homework. I hope that my schedule clears a tad more within the near future; I have so much I want to write and share with you! Feedback is always appreciated, as I love hearing back from you ladies and gents! Love you all and thanks for your patience.

I cannot believe it took me nearly a month to get this out, yet here we are... Well, regardless of the time, the chapter is here! 

 

* * *

 

**No One**

 

 

It was peaceful, this place. The place she was brought to. At first, she had no wish to be here, yet the longer she lingered the stronger the contentment grew. It was dark. Darker than you would ever see in Braavos. A pitch black only illuminated by small stars overhead. A tremor ran through the place with a deep rumbling, as the sky was filled with light, illuminating the ground to reveal small puddles of water reflecting her own visage.

Placing a hand on her chest, darkness erupted from within her ribcage, slipping out in small smoke-like tendrils circling around her hand. No One withdrew her hand, only to have the darkness follow in tow. It formed a small ball, situating itself in the middle of her palm. She flexed her fingers, and discovered the darkness was adapting to her hand movements, it wrapped itself around her fingers as she splayed her fingers out in front of her. Flourishing her fingers in front of herself in a circular movement, she could feel a small shifting in her features. The darkness wrapped around her entire frame and settled once again in the place her heart used to be. 

Flourishing her fingers in front of herself in a circular movement, she could feel a small shifting in her features. The darkness wrapped around her entire frame and settled once again in the place her heart used to be. 

She looked at her reflection in a puddle water which littered the floor of the dream. Her appearance was now that of her original recruiter. Her Jaqen H'ghar. _Curious_ , she thought to herself.  _This thing might have some potential._

A smirk appeared on the memorable face as the glow faded and she began to walk through the returning abyss. There was nothing to be found, save for the ground on which she walked.

Turning to her right, she need not sight to know that the guide she needed was there. The one who had got her there in the first place.

"What is this place?" She asked.

He looked around for a few seconds, considering. "Oblivion..." Was the eventual answer.

"Care to elaborate?"

"This is the way and the how to the question regarding the end of all things. This is when entropy wins." He explained as another brief burst of light and pressure washed over them.

"So... _nothing?_ All this time, the purpose of everything, has been nothing?" Her voice had gone quiet, a silent plea for purpose.  _For reason._

"The world does not exist solely of entropy, yes?" He looked to her, making sure she was following along. "Complexity is responsible for all men like; for all that is praised. Entropy has a darker purpose. One just as beautiful to the keen eye, yet meaningless to most. Entropy makes sure that things end; men, worlds, suns, moons. When the rivers run dry and nought but black fills the sky for all eternity, you can thank entropy. And while this, to men, would be the epitome of misery; the opposite would be just as bad, no?"

The small speech resonated, yet left her confused.  _The world hangs in the balance._

"Complexity is responsible. For matter, for essence." She started.

"Just as much as entropy." He finished.

_Two truths._

"So the reason, which you would be looking for is not one magnificent outcome or a grand design, as all the great religions would have you believe. The answer to the purpose of everything resides in the question, in and of itself; everything is the purpose. And while all may at some point seize to exist, a contrast is required to appreciate what is actually in front of you." He paused for a moment, giving her time to take in the information. "So the ultimate answer to the ultimate question, the telos of the universe: _Brillant accidents, every now and then, on the way to oblivion._ "

No One was stunned into a minute of silence and consideration. The world she had built around herself, slowly cascading down all around her. The fallen pieces were replaced with newer ones. The old pieces were put in comparison to the new ones and were found inferior. Her entire world shifted as her perspective was warped, compressed, then expanded. Everything seemed trivial for a moment, just one moment and then new purpose took hold of the void, banishing to the oblivion from whence it came.

The fallen pieces were replaced with newer ones. The old pieces were put in comparison to the new ones and were found inferior. Her entire world shifted as her perspective was warped, compressed, then expanded. Everything seemed trivial for a moment, just one moment and then new purpose took hold of the void, banishing to the oblivion from whence it came.

Eventually satisfied with her answer, she decided upon another line of inquiry. "So that is why a girl was brought here, yes?"

The god looked at her with raised eyebrows. "You were not brought here." He looked to the side for a moment considering before letting out a small sigh and returning his gaze to her. "You are just as responsible for your own presence here as I am."

 

 

* * *

 

**Willem Darry**

 

 

She stood at his front door once more. Her. The girl he had thought of as his daughter until he suddenly grew ill. Then she had disappeared along with her brother from one day till the other. When he woke from his deep, dreamless slumber, he was heartbroken; but upon seeing her again, he could not help pulling her into a tight hug. Luckily for him, the exiled princess returned his hug eagerly, a small tear escaping her eye at seeing her old guardian.

It was not until they separated, that he noticed the young girls garb. "Good gods, Princess! What are you wearing?" The girl was outfitted in some savage Dothraki rags. _Not at all fitting for a princess._  At this more part of her facade started to crumble, and though he would understand what happened to the poor girl, she was visibly freezing in the Braavosi midnight.

He quickly ushered her inside and prepared for her a bath such that she might clean herself. She definitely needed it. The girl was filthier than he had ever seen her, silvery hair greasy and dirt clinging to her skin. Whilst she bathed in the small bath chamber in extension to the house, he cooked a small meal. It was meek, the meal since he was short on provisions.  _Visit the market tomorrow_ , he made a mental note to himself.

When Daenerys had finished her bath, she made her way down the corridor to the centre of the house. The place was still the welcome, cosy house that she remembered from her childhood. Though Willem was paler in complexion and his hairs lighter, he was still just as friendly to her as he used to be. Upon entering the kitchen, she discovered he had cooked her some fried eggs and bacon, thrown together with some bread to balance it out.

She sat at the small dining table and ate eagerly from the old bear's generous offer. Once she had finished her meal and downed a few glasses of water, life slowly seemed to creep back into the princess' features. She had changed into one of her old gowns which had remained at the house. He had kept her belongings at the small chance that the girl would return to him.

"Pray tell, dear child. Where have you been? What have become of your brother?"

She looked him in the eye. The betrayal, the hurt, it all shone clearly now. As clear as the moonlight streaming through the windows.

"He sold me. Sold me off to whoever would give him the largest army." Tears welled in her eye as she relayed the painful truth, that was now haunting her every waking moment.

"Who?" The old knight asked, somewhat enraged. The tradition was a common one, yet no less barbaric. From what he could gather by her clothing, the reality of the situation would be worse than he realised.

"The great Khal Drogo, of course." For some reason, more despair than anger could be found in her voice. Her eyes welled as she looked at him.

"He is coming here, sir Willem. Viserys is coming." Desperation flooded her voice as the tears fell. His hand gripped hers. A reflex, for anyone who has dealt with pain and hurt before.

"What of Khal Drogo?" Concern was etched on his features. He could hardly handle a horde of Dothraki showing on his doorstep.

"He's dead." She sobbed. "Viserys stole me away, in the middle of the night."

The great Khal had fallen. This meant the Dothraki would regroup and set their sights on new targets. They could only raid and plunder one area for so long. Though the treatment the girl had faced was horrific, it could've been worse. From what he gathered she had come to care for this Drogo, yet a life among the Dosh Khaleen would hardly be the life she desired for herself.

As the night went on, and the old bear's comforting of the young dragon continued, so too did his plans evolve.

 

* * *

 

**Cat**

 

It was time. She went onto the stage and played her part. The knives juggled from hand to hand like they were designed to do so. She twirled and flipped and flourished in a manner, most elegant. The crowd cheered and hooted at the performance as the singing and dancing continued.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen! Now the juggler will tame the panther!" The announcer exclaimed. His voice was melodious and captured the audience quickly. His accent was what one would expect from one who was a performer in Braavos. His Braavosi slipped easily into his Westerosi, yet only so much as to make the announcement more catching and seemingly exotic.

Cat positioned herself such that the panther would be released facing the crowd with her at the forefront. The panther growled and roared when it slipped from the cage. In ordinary performances, one would use a tame one. It seemed Izembaro was in no such mood. She was supposed to  _make_ the panther submit with nought but her hands and feet.

The panther dashed, snapping at her. Cat quickly dodged to the left and went down on her knees. She looked at the animal, its vicious energy filling the arena, as performers hid and clutched hands in fear. It seemed the crowd was nervous, even behind the great barrier separating the crowd from the performers. 

The panther and the cat faced off, each staring the other down as they slowly circled each other. Cat knelt and slowly approached the predator.

As the predator was about to pounce once more, the girl's eyes flashed white. A cold air ran through the room and the panther suddenly stilled. The cat took the opportunity and pounced, wrestling the animal to the floor. When the struggle was over after a more than a few arduous flourishes on the Cats behalf, the audience collectively breathed a sigh of relief, while wide purple eyes remained incredulous in the crowd.

Cat pointed to the cage from where it entered the stage, and the panther slowly walked back to its place of captivity. She gently closed the cage door, barring the panther's escape once more. The now-tame panther proceeded to lie down, giving a small growl and bowing its head. Cat herself bowed to the crowd and in return, received loud applause which only increased in volume as the rest of the cast entered the stage. 

The stage of performers empties as quick as it was filled, and the tight theatric clothing which adorned her body throughout the show was slowly shed to be replaced by one of her normal outfits.

 

Once an appropriate amount of time was spent celebrating the success of the performance was completed, Cat 'the performer' slowly ebbed away. 

From her time as Cat of the Canals, she had gotten to know many parts of Braavos. She had made many friends and accomplices, wheeling around oysters and clams, working by the docks and sailing shipments from time to time. She decided to pay Lanna a visit. The girl ran a tavern with her mother and sister by Ragman's Habor.

"Cata!" The girl exclaimed as she entered the inn through the wooden doors. Lanna left the bar, where she stood to offer her friend a hug.

"Greetings Lan!" The Cat breathed. "How are things faring? Family? Business?"

"Things are well. Steady streams of costumers, information. Not too many trouble makers," Lanna said, raising her brows. "Not after what you did to the last one at least."

A positively wolfish smile settled on the Cat's features. "He got what was coming to him." She cocked her head to the side, considering. "Now you only get the ones who notice when they fall in the canal."

The Cat sat with her friend in a small booth and was handed a large glass whisky. They continued the chatter for some minutes before a shadow appeared in the doorway. Looking to the doorway, the Cat sighed.

"You better get back to work, it seems I have an audience."

Lanna tossed a fleeting look towards the doorway, her expression turning serious. "Take care of yourself, Cata."

"And you, old friend."

No One raised an eyebrow as the short shadow approached her. Such theatrics; No One could barely believe she had just left the theatre.

"A girl could stand being less ominous." No One smirked, as her sister took a seat beside her.

"Ah, what would be the fun of that." The Waif returned, stealing a sip of her whisky. She winced as the potent liquid hit her tongue. It was a strong one. "I've not idea how you stomach this." 

"You have to become the bitterness." She said, smirk widening with a wink.

The senior assassin chuckled in turn.

She eyed her sister for a moment. It was rare for her poisonous sister to leave the temple, so obsessed with her work as she was. The woman certainly excelled in phials and pipettes. A natural in chemistry and alchemy. There was certainly a cause for her visit, one excluding the examination of her drinking tendencies. It was a rare occurrence that faceless men meet. Usually, their conversations were held through young, quick orphan boys who yearned to earn a coin for their service. Thus, a meeting of the two faceless in the public earned them many fleeting looks from the rest of the tavern patrons.

"You came here, to me, for a reason. I am assuming this is not a social call." No One stated, inquiring about her sister's motives. The Waif looked slightly wary. Pale blue eyes glanced around the room and its occupants, Inspecting it for any unfriendly ears whose reach may extend too far. She leant in and spoke quietly.

"Though you are currently handling the house's flackery, do you think you might have time to attend the Sealord? He has specifically requested _your_ presence."

No faceless were alike, yet they were all the same. Any faceless could be replaced with another if need be. Yet he was asking for the student of the First Sword. There is only one such faceless with the scar to match his request. She nodded in return, it seemed the Sealord may loathe to acknowledge it, yet he needed their help. 

 

* * *

 

 

**Bran Stark**

 

 

He had arrived five moons ago. Both Sansa and Jon had been overjoyed to see him, yet now he understood what it was that plagued them. It was all one long wait for the day the white walkers would come. More than that, him coming from the north brought no news they needed either.

The army of the dead was amassing and headed to their doorstep. He still received the visions; Winterfell's heart tree was generous with them, actually.

What was in actuality a gift had become a curse, for him. The visions would plague him with the past. His father's execution, Robb's tragedy at the twins, Sansa's violation, Jon's stabbing and finally, Rickon being shot by Ramsey.

All these would play out in front of him in his sleep. The visions taunting him for his inability to stop any of the outcomes.  _Such cruel, cruel gods._

There was, however, one thing missing. One person who was never present within his visions. Not even at her own birth. Arya was nowhere to be found in the vast network of roots spread out across the world. How can a man who knows every way in which all Westerosi could come to their demise not know what happened to his own sister?  _Failure._

What had happened to the little girl who always beat him at archery was a mystery to him. 

A lady knight, Brienne of Tarth, had told him that the girl was travelling with Sandor Clegane. She then proceeded to disappear as abruptly as she found her.

The not knowing was torture. His gift had become an anathema, and the waiting, the long waiting only added to this.

Jon had done a marvellous job assembling an army. He had countless legions prepared to fight and die for him at a moments notice, yet not knowing whether or not there was going to be a battle to determine all their fates tomorrow was impossible to handle. The low amount of sunlight only adding to their wariness.

Meera had shone through for Bran's family, helping them at every turn. They had married under the heart tree, and Sansa had finally, for a moment, smiled a little in return. On this very day, a young blacksmith had arrived from the south. Apparently, he had known Arya and wished to come see her family and childhood home. The young man was of incredible talent and had their legions hastily armed with obsidian weapons and proper armour. He had already begun training and feeding orphans at the blacksmith; though with his discovery of Brienne's knowledge of Arya's survival he had wished to go scour the realms of men in search of her. 

Jon had been insistent at first that the young man should train a new blacksmith before starting his search, yet as time passed and his worriment grew, his resolve faded. 

Bran was worried for his sister. She was only a young, malleable child when their father was executed. Not only that, she never appeared in his visions and vast trails blood flowed from sources unknown. Unseen when gazing from the future as a green seer.  _Was this Arya?_ It could not be. 

Sansa was already on the path to darkness. He could not muster seeing another of his siblings follow this road. He sent another prayer to the gods who gave him his insight, yet cruelly denied his sight of his missing sibling.

 

* * *

 

 

**Tormo Fregar**

 

 

As he walked down the hallway in the Sealord's Palace, he felt a cold chill settle around his shoulders. His first sword was at his heels if he was needed.  _Hopefully not._  

The ghoul had become a public spectacle, and he would not be popular if he had to have his protector take action. Although he was inclined to trust the guild, he was wary of them.  _Everyone was these days._ The guild had done little in matters of public relations before his First Sword was approached with the request of having one of their order trained. Luckily the ghouls  _always_ pay their debts.

As he entered his study, he discovered the young woman had made herself comfortable, cruising in his audience chair as if she owned the palace. His brows furrowed for a moment, before striding to his own desk chair.

As he seated himself in the audience chair, he eyed his audience for a moment. She seemed completely at ease, like a courtesan in their barge. The girl was spinning a small knife between her fingers, including small flourishes into the mix. He pulled out the price for his First Sword's services and laid the iron coin on the table.

The girl awakened as if from a trance, knife disappeared into her robe. As the girl studied the small coin, she nodded in recognition and gazed lifted her gaze to his features.

"What can a guild do for a man, dear Sealord?" The girl's voice was smooth and sly. She did not sound trustworthy whatsoever. The raised eyebrow and grey eyes did little to ease his concern. He steeled himself, getting up from his chair and walking toward the small fireplace. 

He could not place her expression. She was so passive that any emotion could pass through her without the world being made aware. Something made him doubt whether emotions even flowed through her in the first place.

"I need your help." He sighed, defeated. He was nervous. Him! He was one of the most powerful men in the known world, yet beneath the slate gaze of the young faceless, he was somehow  _lesser._ He looked to his first sword for reassurance, who merely waved at the young woman. She bowed her head in respect, raising two fingers to her eye. A reminder of her servitude; two things may be asked: service or death.

Grey eyes returned to his frame. "How may a girl serve?" She asked. A dark brow rose in unison, inquiring the matter. So unbelievably purposeful...

As the smirk passed across her facial features with her words, a wave of desire flowed through his body. The girl was unbelievable. Magisterial in making someone enticed and uncomfortable all at the same time. This was an individual who could control men either as conscious as the flexing of fingers or as unknowing as the beating of a heart.

 _Nothing a faceless man ever does is without purpose._  He reminded himself. He could not help but heed the rumours passing through the city. Trusting this girl could be the unmaking of him and all he held dear.

"I need your investigative capabilities for killings around the city." He started. At this the second brow rose, displaying curiosity and asking him to elaborate. "A few important officials have been... let's say, indelicately put to rest. The killings all followed the same method; you can view the evidence for yourself if you desire. I would very much prefer if this situation could be... ameliorated. As I have no desire to handle insurrections at the current time and believe you far more artisanal in such matters."

A compliment with a task. If the ghouls reacted like ordinary individuals, the deal should be sorted. The ghoul walked back to the table, pocketing the iron coin and taking the documents on the table. She turned to him, a malicious smile ghosting on her features. Her expression sent a cold chill throughout his body, and her next words did little to console him.

"The game is on." She concluded; her words as sure as Death's embrace. _Mayhaps that is whence she came, a curse for men and a gift for death._  Men always desired what they could never acquire. The ghoul was one such thing, intangible, slipping from one's grasp like water in a sieve.

The ghoul turned around and disappeared into the shadows. He looked where the girl had previously stood, her form previously blocking the view of the Secret City. Braavos glowed in the evening mists, making the lights easy to see from the Sealord's Palace. Proof of the lagoon's well-being, at least for the time being.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**No One**

 

 

As the doors to the Sealord's Palace were opened for her, she was quickly assaulted by the cool breeze of Braavos' foggy evening. As No One crossed the threshold, her black curls blew around her shoulders framing her face in the faint moonlight. The gravel crunched beneath her feet, as she sashayed gracefully through the courtyard.

A sharp presence hit her to her left. That, together with a sense of danger. Her instincts demanded her to move.  _Right._  A small glint appeared from the shadows as she spun to her right, catching the small metallic object thrown her way. In the same movement, the blade was caught and flung back in return.

Two sounds hit hear ears; one was the rustling of steel piercing linen, followed by the thud of steel embedding itself in wood. The blade had caught the man, yet did not pierce his skin. _No smell of blood._  Time stood still, as she considered the angle, the speed and precision. The angle was tight, the speed impressive and the precision... If she had not caught it, the blade would have pierced her shoulder. Hardly a fatal injury, yet judging by the angle from which it was thrown, the speed of her steps till this point, as well as the travel of the weapon... It was the work of an assassin.

The blade appeared to her in her mind's eye. It was decorative, yet simple. It was of reasonable weight and size, yet the sharpness was what caught her interest. The sharpness, judging by the hiss of air which followed in its wake was beyond impressive. No work of a normal assassin. This, she realised were one of their own. A betrayer? A test? Gods knew they did not need another purge at this time...

She considered the blade and the gust of air which travelled with it. The wind carried a scent, faint yet distinguishable. A scent that had been plaguing her thoughts for some time.

_Ginger and cloves._

Time sped up as reality returned to her, and her movements came to a close. The shadows ceased to conceal the man from her gaze, and she was greeted with a welcome sight.  _The Lorathi._

"Such a way to greet your own recruit?" No One accused. He let out a sigh as he saw her face illuminated in the moonlight. She had grown, his lovely girl. Where once there was a scrawny tomboy, there now stood a woman in full vigour. She had deduced his identity very impressively.

"Lovely girl, you certainly have improved." He approved of her performance. The Lorathi extracted the dagger from where it pinned him to the wooden pole. The many wooden poles surrounding the Searlord's Palace were responsible for the elevation of the deck which surrounded the mansion. The knife disappeared in his robes, and he strode to where the girl had remained in the courtyard.

"A man assumes you are acquainted with the city, yes?" The Lorathi purred, putting his hand to her cheek. No One leant into his touch and hummed her agreement. "A man apologises; he should have been here when you first came to the temple." She looked at him suspiciously. A small fragment came to mind in the form a deep purr a lifetime ago: 'If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos...'

"I found No One." She said placidly. 

"Just so." He offered her a brief smile.

When the girl arrived the main floor of the temple was cleared of anyone, not of their kind. Isolation is what makes the best Lorathi. The more the mind is twisted against itself, the more it can be taught to focus, the better the acolyte. The girl was already a groomed Lorathi when she was first found, and here she was.

Now, the temple was bustling in comparison to the empty, dark cathedral the girl had arrived to. The Lorathi had seen the swords lying at her hip, and he knew what they meant. He would have to teach her, not only the crafts of dual blades, yet also the handling of the nature that came with the blades.

Such things should never be trivialised for, in the situation in which he found himself, this one dark, troubled, lonely girl may be the end of them all if they were not careful.

 


	6. Murder, magic and mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite no one discovers a great many things. Many with little explanation... at least so far.

AN: I am sorry this took so long. I have been working on this chapter for seemingly forever, yet family and education do not agree with my wish to keep writing. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; any feedback is much appreciated!

* * *

 

 

**Kinvara**

 

The flames licked her skin from the braziers surrounding her, the very same flames that illuminated the room in an orange-hued glow, causing the red priestess’ robes to appear even more crimson than their original tailoring intended them to.

Her skin warmed as she stared into the fires searching for meaning, searching for the word of her god. The flames were relentless, unyielding.  _They held no meaning for her, no purpose_. She was the High Priestess, The First Servant of R'hllor, she should be the one to whom the god would communicate, and yet for a moon's turn, the flames had remained obscure.

She walked among the multitude of braziers which all contributed to the eerie lighting of the prayer room. She weaved in between multiple priestesses’ in search of a brazier which would hold a message for her. Something - anything - to placate the doubt plaguing her mind. An unidentifiable sensation washed over her, and she was quickly drawn to a single canister of flames. The flames calmed as she approached the small corner where it resided, the fire glowed a deep crimson, rather than the oranges which illuminated the remainder of the room.

She approached and was immediately rewarded with the visions she so desperately sought. She had been without purpose for far too long. It was well past time that her services be employed once more.

The flames showed her an image of two individuals in a cave. A familiar man; one of their own, with a savage woman. The two seemed to correspond with each other as hours turned to days, and two small phials changed hands. A shadow passed through the flames and they almost died down, until they roared back to life showing the lifeblood of the individuals spraying upon the cave wall. They both fell to the ground, they’re flaming bodies fading away until nothing but the burning coals of the brazier remained. A few small sparks displayed the wall for her once more, the sight was a valuable one.

A small message was etched upon the wall from the macabre scarlet of their own priest, one message that held far more significance than any holy text ever could. 

The ancient order makes their move, after all. Seems the god seemed fit for her to be one to confront The Faceless.  _No dragons. After all this time, waiting..._ Newfound hatred boiled in her veins, heated blood coursing throughout her body. Their plots had been impeccable, their sacrifices tremendous and yet, the ghouls had dared to oppose them so blatantly.  _So boldly._  The servants of Death should learn not to dance by their fire, else they may be scorched.

 

The First Servant escaped the small alcove which was theirs, walking through the shadowy streets which characterised their home. The streets were as empty and eerie as they always were. There were lights in a few windows, yet if not for her knowledge of the city’s culture, she would assume it was a ghost town.

She had hidden a small yet heavy coin pouch within her gown, and with that, she left the black, oozing stones of Asshai. If the faceless men wanted to play games she would indulge them, she was no stranger to the game of faces and had no intention of losing. The port which marked the bottom of the city greeted her like an old friend, there were many ships all seemingly with no destination.

For now, she would leave her brothers and sisters to their preparations; many enchantments were required to conceal them and keep death at bay. R’hllor knows Him of The Many Faces wanted to claim them, they had lived well past their time as far as they were concerned.

A somewhat luxurious ship welcomed her as she boarded and with a few coins, the dark solemn captain was easily persuaded to set sail for The Bastard Daughter. The ghastly servants of that abominable house had interfered with their plans for the last time.

What was a cathedral with merely eight servants to their entire order? She would soon find out.

 

Upon her arrival by the dockside of Braavos, she quickly acquired a small apartment from where she could grow her network. 

Once the accommodations were bought and her living quarters furnished, she chose to visit the temple of R’hllor. It would hardly do to leave the priests completely to themselves.

The preachers were still spreading their godly commandments and morals, yet the crowds appeared to have grown smaller.  _Less significant_. Either the citizens of Braavos had tired of their preaching, or someone else was responsible...

The Temple of R’hllor still stood, blood red as ever. The enormous torch at the top still lit, guiding the people of Braavos to their location should they choose to visit. The flames seemed to shine less bright in Braavos than they did in Asshai. This place did little to welcome them, regardless if they had The Lord of Light on their side.

As she entered the oaken doors to the temple, one man greeted her instantaneously. She recalled this servant; one named Terrowin Marek. He had the propriety of a Westerosi, yet the pragmatism of a Braavosi. It would not do to have someone too rigid in their faith running the temple in Braavos. Such a priest merely receives scoffs and eye rolls from the people of Braavos, rather than reaching the desired effect.

"High priestess." He acknowledged, bowing in front of her. The show of respect was naturally obligatory, yet it pleased her that the man had not forgotten his place. Individuals with little communication to the remainder of the order could quickly loose respect for their superiors. Such tendencies were unacceptable in the service of The Lord of Light; thus, it pleased her that the man need not be put in his place.  

"Terrowin." She nodded in return. The man was responsible for the conversion of the Braavosi people from all their previous religions towards the true faith. They walked together into the temple in companionable silence, the many braziers and torches illuminating the red walls of the temple, providing a stark contrast to the solid brick or wood constructions that made up the bulk of braavosi residences.

"How goes our efforts?" She inquired. The conversion of the world towards their religion had originally been slow; such were the ways of the world, after all. Changes in paradigms take time and for now, time was on their side. The last ravens had told of fast expansion of the population considered converts towards The Red God, yet men were unreliable. The Bravos especially were a people prone to a rapid change of mind.

"High priestess," the man's scruffy voice started, "I am afraid that the ghouls are fighting back." Kinvara narrowed her eyes at this.  _Fighting back?_  How would the faceless men fight back in a war of ideas? Assassins were not preachers, and certainly not populists. 

The nervously swallowed and took a deep, laboured breath. Her suspicious mien implored him to elaborate: "The Faceless Men seems to have captured the Braavosi, especially the Water Dancers with their flackery. A young ghoul is now often seen duelling with The First Sword by The Moon Pool." Of course.  _A preaching sang with the clashes of steel and a message sent with the sparks of blades_. Such a sight would not only be welcomed but if the ghoul could go toe to toe with The First Sword... Such a public statement would spread wide and fast, from inn to inn within moons.

The High Priestesses features twisted into a snarl. "I believe I need an audience with this 'ghoul'. It seems The Faceless Men have once again forgotten their place in this world." The man's brown eyes sought the ground from worry. If the plan The High Priestess was plotting turned sour, this could possibly be the end of them all.

It seems the ghouls wanted to play a game. A dance, rather.  _A Dance with Death_.

 

* * *

 

 

**Viserys Targaryen**

 

As he approached the docks on the Dornish ship, his thoughts raced.  _She left him! That whore dared leave him!_ His emotions caused him to fume from rage as he paced back and forth on the deck.

He was the rightful King of Westeros; the entirety of Dorne was already on his side, and his own sister dared leave him. The time with the Dothraki had been a fruitless effort and an absolute waste of time. The Khal had died long before his khalesar could be employed. Not only that, it was doubtful the Dothraki would have helped him in the first place. He was a fool to trust his earlier advisors.  _Never again!_

He combed his long silver hair with his hands as he considered the entirety of the ordeal. He had traded his sister to the savages and received nothing in return. The time riding in the Dothraki plains had not only be a waste of time, yet had also left his sister too wild; too wilful.

The conclusion left him with newfound hatred boiling within his Valyrian blood. Daenerys would need to be bound to his will once more. Such was the way of Valyria, after all: _bend_   _until broken, and leave nought but ashes in your wake._

In time, he would make the world tremble at his will, just as Aegon the Conqueror had done in his time. This was  _his_ time. The future was his to mould and form to his will. He would not stop until Westeros was his. Only then, when his family seat was returned and his enemies vanquished, would he give up his bloodlust.

 

The docks of Braavos greeted him as a familiar sight when he first set foot in Purple Harbour. The docks were crowded with loud exclaims as well as quiet whispers in the corners. The courtesans' barges remained situated looking out on the city, shielded by the legendary titan. The sea breeze from the north blew his hair about his features as he walked through the docks, intent on finding his way to the first inn in sight.

The Blue Lantern stood vigilant, welcoming any wealthy seafarer who chose to spend the night there. The inn was free of the filth you would find in Ragman's Harbour and allowed a small number of guards to accompany one's guests, so there was little point in further searching.

He entered the inn and was quickly assaulted by an orchestra of voices speaking in hushed and loud tones alike.

"You saw her last time! It is only a matter of time before The First Sword has found his match!" Was a Westerosi voice in one corner.

"The Faceless do seem to take more responsibility in the city lately, no?" A Braavosi man asked.

"Of course, that young ghoul certainly is a fair one too. I envy The First Sword sometimes, you know." The Westerosi jested.

"You wouldn't be so envious if it were you facing her in the dance, and certainly not as fair as the The Black Pearl." A colourfully clad Bravos reminded him.

Viserys pushed past the conversation, making way towards one of the serving girls. He threw a pouch with gold coins onto the table and gestured towards the two warriors he had brought with him.

"Ale for all of us, and we will be needing a room each. We will also require a bath in a watch." He told her. The wench offered him a small smile before turning around to carry out the order.

He turned around to the two Dornish warriors whom he had chosen to accompany him. The men were of impressive stature, with large bulky muscles. No one would dare defy him with such warriors flanking his side. "We will start the search for my  _sister_  on the morrow. We will rest for tonight and punish  _her_  for the time wasted in this place." His voice was back to its kingly self, hatred seeping into his countenance with every reference to his own blood. The dornishmen nodded in turn, awaiting the much-desired ale. 

The night went on and after his short bath, Viserys quickly found himself well into his cups when a girl of pale visage and raven-black hair entered the tavern. The entire inn died down at her entry, somewhat enraging Viserys in his drunken state.  _Such should be the reaction upon his entry into the tavern, all should bow before the rightful Targaryen heir!_

Grey eyes scoured the room, finding his own lilac irises for a moment before moving on to inspect the remainder of the tavern. Behind her, a blurry image of a man arose. The man’s fingers were clenched around her shoulders as if restraining her, yet when she moved the man merely followed until she was encompassed by the light of the room, and the two become one.

The young girl smirked at seeing the taverns suddenly quiet state, and the patrons hastily made plenty of room; keeping a fair distance from her.  _What would inspire such fear and admiration?_  The expressions were impossible to miss, as everyone reflected it. 

It seemed this woman deserved an audience with the King of Westeros himself.

 

* * *

 

 

**No One**

 

Sparks flew in tandem with the chorus of singing steel, which gradually filled the grey sparring hall. Bronze eyes gazed at her intently, attempting to interpret her next move. She flourished her blades from her front, around her back gathering momentum. She let go of the momentum she gathered and her blades burst forth, the left blade an uppercut from the bottom and the right into a downward swipe.

The Lorathi parried the attacks, countering with his own flurries until the air between them was filled with silver and sparks once more. The blades sang, again and again, the sparks flying around the room once more. She riposted, hitting him with an elbow to the jaw. She retained some of the force behind the strike, such that his jaw would not be dislodged. While injuries were common in their craft, it was hardly the desired result of their sparring. Though they had little intent of harming one another, it did little to stop her forearms from bleeding. Tens of small, shallow cuts adorned her arms and hands in macabre documentations of her efforts to finally defeat the Lorathi in combat. It was also a testament to her improvement.

Last time they had danced, she had required cleaning and sowing of wounds to stop her from leaving a trail wherever she went in the temple and city.

She spun one blade overtop of her head and another around her side as she would attempt a finishing move. The Lorathi crossed his blades, the swords slamming together in a move that had him crouching on the ground, parrying overtop of his head. The impact would have left the average man fractured and bleeding to death, possibly knocked back by the sheer momentum concentrated in a such a small area.

He narrowed his own blades, gathering hers by his cross guards. This was when he would twist her weapons from her hands. He had often disarmed her this way, always twisting her blades slightly out of her grasp. She held the blades using only her thumbs and corresponding palms and allowed him full control of her swords. The twist came as expertly as it always did yet this time she twisted her hands with him, allowing the blades to slide slightly out of her hands before catching them once more in a reverse grip.

She whirled her blades around finding them at his throat in a fraction of a second. He gazed up upon her face, his eyes staring intently into hers. They were both breathing erratically, their bodies soaked with sweat. The Lorathi let out a heavy sigh and smirked slightly, his predatory features illuminated by the torchlight making his already bronze skin glow even more.

“A girl has certainly improved.” He spoke calmly despite his racing heartbeat. He could have sworn his pulse has quickened since the end of their dance, yet would rationalise it as a mere failure of perception. She bowed her head in acknowledgement. The Lorathi was the only other faceless who knew of dual wielding techniques, yet she had to admit that was not the sole reason for her requesting his training.

“A girl will need a bath.” She concluded, gazing down at her sweat soaked training attire. Her heart was racing, and the sweat had left the thin training-robe clinging to her skin, leaving little to the imagination.

She directed her gaze back to her original recruiter where he still knelt upon the ground. He seemed to be completely absorbed, his eyes darker than their usual green. He closed his eyes for a moment before realising he was actually being spoken to. He shook his head and returned his gaze to her eyes once more.

“Of course, lovely girl. Valar Morghulis.” Was his eventual response. She inclined her head in return, “Valar Dohaeris.”

 

The bath provided her with much-needed refreshment, easing the ache in her arms. Many nights she had repeated this routine, yet it was only now after nearly a moon that she had been able to best the Lorathi master. He had years of experience ahead of her, naturally, so she had to kerb her expectations accordingly.

Their training had gone on for hours, with multiple matches and a multitude of small injuries to tell of their occurrence, yet now she knew her chances of besting the Lorathi in combat.  _One out of a hundred and twenty._  The odds were poor, yet she would make sure to improve in the coming months.  _Can only get better from here,_  she thought as she scrubbed the sweat and blood from her arms. She winced at pain which was more apparent now that the adrenaline had run dry, and the small brush provided resistance against her wounds.

She scrubbed herself until her skin was clean and proceeded to wash her hair. She untied her braid and let her dark curls flow around her shoulders as she descended her head into the steaming waters, combing the locks with her fingers; cleaning them until not at speckle of filth could be found in the long tresses.

As the girl ascended the water with a small gasp, the water drained quickly from her features. She whipped her head back, causing an army of tiny, clear droplets of water to rain across the marble floor of the shower-room. Upon exiting the tub, No One sat on a small, padded, wooden chair and began to comb her hair; slowly drying it.

“A man could merely knock on the door, rather than sneaking into the room.” She commented to the shadowy figure in the corner of the otherwise candlelit room.

“No fun that way, lovely girl.” The Lorathi purred. “Besides, a man would hardly wish to disturb a girl’s enjoyment of the bath.” No One stretched her muscles, the joint cracking as she did so.

“A man is not here to join a girl?” She asked, brows furrowed as she unwrapped the towel she had bound around her hair.

“If that was a man’s business, a lovely girl would not be the sole party naked in this room.” He pointed out.

No One shrugged. “Suit yourself, then. What brings a man to a girl’s presence then? Besides shower gazing, of course.” A devious smile spread upon the girl's features.

The Lorathi smiled sardonically. Normally he would smirk, but this was no laughing thing. “Oh, lovely girl. You have no clue what your presence causes.” Her brows furrowed as she dressed in her normal attire. She was on patrol duty tonight, as she almost always was.

“The order is unhappy with you, lovely girl. They believe a girl to be careless; _sadistic_. The new swords on her back do little to ameliorate the predicament.” At this, her eyes snapped to his. Her expression was unreadable as The Faceless Ones always are. She valued her words carefully, making sure to make each syllable pressing.

“Does a man share their… _concern_?” Her grey eyes shone as she met his bronze gaze.

He shook his head in return. “The God… expressed his concern to a man. Apparently, a lovely girl is very dear to Him.” He sighed, running his calloused hand through his red and white curls.

At this, her guarded expression faltered and different emotions were permitted to pass over her features.

“Lovely girl, you are wearing your thoughts…”

“On purpose.” She interrupted him. “If a girl can trust a man, as he says, he should know what she thinks.”

A rare connection. Faceless ones hardly let go of their façade, and he quickly found himself admiring her unexpected wisdom.  He was surprised, however, when he found more irritation to be found on her face than betrayal. Any of The Faceless who were turned against in the past would always be either infuriated or feel betrayed. Not his lovely girl. The contempt she showed was like that a man would grant a fly who outstayed their welcome around one's food.

“The Waif, The Elder and The Handsome fellow will always be on our side. Then we are over half of all the _significant_ faceless, all on one side. Your voice would also echo over all the others.” She pointed out. _Significant faceless men, insignificant faceless men… Where does she draw the line?_

“A girl counts many valuable members insignificant.” He pointed out. The girl's self-assurance was good for her as a public figure, yet hardly valuable as a strategist.

“Even if a girl can only beat you once out of one hundred and twenty tries. It would take any other member much and more to do the same. Unless The First Sword joins in, a girl hardly believes she is under threat.” 

“There are many contenders we could face if we are careless.” He stressed. “A girl should not be so confident.”

“ _Five_ Lorathi with a single mind. _We could take this city on._ ” She insisted. He sighed.

“A man must pray it never comes to that. Besides, a god would hardly be pleased to find so many of his servants removed from the game.” The Lorathi said warily.

She chuckled in return. “No, certainly not. That would take much reconciliation. He would plague our dreams for eternity.” The Lorathi’s mask of everlasting contentment fell away, giving way to wide, surprised eyes. A hint of fear could be detected in his countenance.

“A girl receives such visions?” His voice was more demanding than usual and laced with worriment.

“Not normal?” She questions.

“No” He confirms. He introspected for a moment, his expression turning sombre. “A split god.”

She finished clasping her tunic and walked to where he stood, looking him in the eye from where she stood. She had not grown much in regards to height since he had first met her, yet she had grown in every other way imaginable.

“While a girl and a man remain honest – free of the game, that is:” She said staring into his eyes intently. “I missed you Jaqen.” She allowed herself a small fragment of the memories from her childhood and embraced him.

He hugged her back, his strong arms circling her small frame. A moment of vulnerability, in the harsh life that the made for themselves. “And I you, Arya Stark.”

 

As No One and The Lorathi left the bathroom, their minds and masks were firmly in their place once more. While there was little to fear for either of them, getting out of practice was hardly an option. _We never stop playing, for the game is never over._ She remembered. One must always be ready to change one's personality for the appropriate occasion, and while they mingled within the temple they needed to be a blank slate to be drawn upon. Real personalities would be employed as they left the temple doors, only to be discarded when they entered the temple once more.

They separated quickly, and No One’s feet found themselves by The Pool rather quickly. The Elder turned the corner and smiled at her. She nodded to her old master, greeting as was their custom. “Valar Morghulis.”

“Valar Dohaeris. Who are you?” He asked her.

A dark brow rose at her teacher. It had been moons since he had asked her this very question. Had he been spying on her and The Lorathi’s exchange? Doubt and slight unease filled her centre, yet she refused to let the emotions pry the surface.

With her usual smirk, she regarded him. “Who does The Many-faced God require a girl to be?” She questioned. Her tone lacked any emotion or regard, her face was unreadable. He nodded and pointed to her.

“None but The Gentleman you usually display. Braavos may well be in need of your swords this night.” He regarded her, a kind smile grazing his features.

“So a girl has heard. It seems even The Sealord’s Swords has weaknesses. I am to see the scene of one such murder tonight.” The Kindly Man listened intently. For a man with a thousand spies across the city, he truly did seem surprised. Seems the spies have not caught this one.

“I was aware of your summoning by the Sealord, yet I had not a clue as to what it was about. You certain you’re up to this?” He questioned her.

She smirked in return. “Always…” her sentence was clipped short by the opening of the weirwood and ebony doors.

Grey eyes snapped to the invader who had interrupted their exchange. The scent of blood and fire permeated the air around him. His entire body looked like a canvas one had elected to paint with a thick brush of red.

“Looks like someone enjoyed themselves… perhaps a little too much.” No One chuckled.

The Handsome Man chuckled in return. “God should not have given me the job, had He not wanted a show for it.” At this, she tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“Very true. Elder, I assume you will handle our Handsome Man’s… predicament. I will move on to the streets.” She cocked her head to the side lifting her eyes from The Handsome Man to her old mentor.

He merely nodded in return. As she began to walk away, The Kindly Man waved at her: “Valar Morghulis.”

She spun, waving to him in the movement. “Valar Dohaeris.” She called out as she left the distinctive doors.

 

When she left the doors to the temple, the cool sea breeze welcomed her into the evening mists. She went down the bridge connecting the small islands making up The Isle of the Gods. Here a familiar skiff awaited her form to traverse the waters through The Lagoon.

The old bridges and wharves greeted her one the other side, as the waves were split and the skiff traversed the water from the Shivering Sea. The Inn of the Green eel marked her escape from The Isle of the Gods, where bawdy and cheerful music echoed through the streets from the various inns within The Secret City.

No One began deciding upon her preferred vantage-point. After some time, she continued through the thickening fog which would envelop the city every night. The cobbled streets greeted her with their usual proclivities and people. Fighting Bravos would seize their fights immediately upon spotting her presence, and order would occur as a natural sign of fear and respect.

_Respect is not given, it is earned._

Small bridges between the islands made quick work of the distance as she closed in on the Chequy Port. The large tower awaited her when she had passed the densely-built houses which littered The Secret City. Many houses were required to accommodate the many inhabitants of the city, and though some structures were indeed far more impressive than others, all residencies maintained a level of quality rarely seen in other cities.

She had prepared a climbing rope and some black leather gloves for her journey to the outpost. She wished not put any attention unto herself, so marching straight in – while possible – would do little to aid her mission. She required her entire concentration for what she was to pull off.

Her lithe body easily ascended the tower, once the solid, thin climbing rope had been secured to the ramparts of the tower. As she hauled herself over the edge and onto the building, her suspicions were confirmed. None would be missing the tower, at least for the night. Nevertheless, she barred the hatch leading to the area above.

No One sat upon the ramparts and extended her consciousness to the world surrounding her. The minds of thousands upon thousands of small lifeforms came to her as a possible extension to her own, and after a quarter watch, she had made her picks. A single request sent to four different ravens: _come to me._

Initially, all had been reluctant to listen to the new, persuasive voice in their minds, yet with coaxing and the promise of food, all the birds had taken flight and she could once again return to her being. A faint mist appeared at the edge of her field of view, where there once would be nought to see. Her head had already begun spinning from the fatigue of magic, yet the rush it yielded still managed to keep the exhaustion at bay.

A few minutes and four black ravens landed upon her shoulders. She threw a handful of corn upon the stone floors that made up the ramparts of the tower, and the ravens feasted hungrily. For a moment, there was nought a sound but the ravens’ claws scraping against the hard stones of the battlements until a slight drizzle began to descend from the heavens.

Water slowly absorbed into her robe as she waited for the ravens to end their feasting. It seemed there was little food to be found for the animals. _Perhaps an opportunity to gain a few companions,_ she pondered. Ravens could be very useful for surveying the area.

When the ravens finished, she called them to her. They were obedient surprising quickly and perched atop her shoulders once more. She stroked them along their feathers, preparing them for the merging of their minds. She expanded her consciousness, and immediately she had new perspectives at the corners of her eyes.

Rolling her eyes to different sides of her vision would display the sight of different ravens. She commanded the ravens to seek. _Seek the bodies._ The ravens flew off in a flash, and she was quickly alone once more in the slight downpour of rain.

After a short while, a feeling of shallow ecstasy flowed to her from the right. She looked to her right, now through the eyes of the raven and saw an old carcas. _This one must have been the first._ The body was nearly rotten from where it lay by the sea. The raven descended from the heavens and landed atop the body, slowly inspecting it.

The body displayed no signs of violence or struggle. There was no smell of either poison or sickness, which would take a human life. The hair was not greyed or greened either, in the ways that the poisons would function from the house. There was a slight, shallow smell of magic on the body, yet when the raven’s black beaks broke the surface of the man’s lungs, they were full of water.

Drowned; without a struggle, a slight smell of magic, and one more thing… An unfamiliar smell assaulted her senses as she inspected the man’s pockets. He was without coin or blade, yet in his pocket was a small, oozing black stone. She picked it within the beaks of the raven and started the journey back.

All the victims were ordinary aristocrats, with no ties or involvement in magic. That is unless they were subject to it. There were 2 other bodies to be found, the remaining raven returned to the perch with no result. The two bodies found had both died in a different way to the first. One had their lungs filled with earth, yet the third one was the most horrific: the third man had suffered from frostbite, yet his lungs were charred.

Another problem had developed; one very different from what she was originally sent to do. There was still one aristocrat missing. Her thoughts returned to the present; the three black stones in front of her. It was not obsidian, nor was it any other stone one would find. They were all placed in the pockets of the victims. One thing was for sure, whoever was responsible for the deaths of these individuals, one thing was certain: they were good. _Very, very good._

The rain had subsided when she had left the tower. She had rewarded the birds for their service and efficiently climbed down, only to be met with an even foggier Braavos than one would usually find. The slight downpour had left the alleys wet, and the air moist making the climate almost tropical in nature had it not been for the cool winds flowing from the ports.

In the foggy darkness where she walked a strange sense of purpose found her. The purpose grew and slowly encompassed her, where it drew her towards the Purple Harbour. Slowly, the urge dimmed as she continued on down the winding alleys and crossed The Long Canal. Purple harbour greeted her cheerfully as courtesans and Bravos strut around proudly, bowing low to her in respect and introducing themselves.

The door to the inn opened before her. Grey eyes scoured the room as she entered, and purple eyes found her own. She broke the gaze and inspected the now-quiet room. The inn was heavily populated at this hour, and all looked away except a pair of purple eyes who seemed gaze at her as if she was The Stranger herself.

She moved to the counter, robes swishing about her feet in the golden firelight from candles and fireplaces. The innkeeper greeted her with a fake smile and fear in her eyes, as she took in the ghoul’s athletic form. She smiled sardonically herself and placed five Braavosi titans on the desk. It was three above the serving price for the liquor she had picked for herself, yet with the uncomfortable air running through the room it seemed only appropriate.

A vacant seat at the back, in the shadows, welcomed her as she waited for her drink to be served. The serving-maid eyed her nervously as she placed the drink on the small wooden table in front of the chair. She inspected the room as conversations began to spread. Originally hushed, yet soon turning bolder when forgetting her presence. There were – however, one pair of eyes which had stayed on her throughout her tour of the room.

The bold purple eyes which had locked with hers. As she sipped her drink her eyebrow rose as the man had gathered his courage and chosen to approach her. She leant back into her seat lazily as he approached and gazed at him sideway through her lids.

Her features smoked a slight dark steam as her scars disappeared, and her face regained the relative immaculacy it had many years past. He did not notice the smoke, granted he continued his stride until he pulled up a chair next to her table. He gestured toward her drink, to which she indulged him with a bow of her head.

He sipped the strong liquid and winced as it flowed down his throat. “What does a man wish, Viserys Targaryen.” Her eyes bore into his, and he gulped in return. His eyes were red-rimmed and had the slight tint of madness, yet she found nervousness in his gaze when he was confronted with her own.

He noticed her lack of scars and searched her face frantically, trying to confirm his own judgement once again. He never found the signs he was asking for, as he raised a fearful hand to trace her features. Her eyebrow rose at his audaciousness. She could end this man in a fraction of a second, and none would even bat an eyelid at her doing so, yet she sensed the man might be useful for some information.

“I could make you the queen of Westeros,” he slurred; “bards would sing songs of your… beauty and grace… “She chuckled softly as the rightful King of Westeros pronounced his fancy for her features. She grabbed a fistful of a blue dust by a pouch hanging from her belt. She clenched her fist tight and leant her face by the thumb of her clench fist. She lightly opened her hand a blew some dust onto his face, and his body quickly became calm and subservient.

“What is a man’s actual reason for visiting The Secret City, Viserys Targaryen?” She started her interrogation. At this, the true madness flowed to his eyes, yet his demeanour remained calm.

“My _sister_ , Daenerys.” His voice answered coldly.

The interrogation continued until her _companion_ fell asleep over the table. When he would wake, the powder would have made him forget everything which had happened during her visit to the tavern. It seems her plans were accelerated somewhat. More than that, she had several matters with which she would need the consultation of her mentors.

Oh yes, she had much to inquire.

 

* * *

 

 

**The Lorathi**

 

The dark corridors of the temple embraced him as he ascended the levels of the temple towards the surface level. He was informed by The Elder that the girl would be returning shortly. Apparently, she had a run-in with a Valyrian claimant for the Westerosi throne. He was worrying that his lovely girl was meddling in too much politics.

The house did not participate in the squabbles of men, unless strictly necessary. Bronze eyes shone in the candlelight as he cornered the no one he was looking for. “Valar Morghulis, lovely girl.” He said from the shadows. If she was surprised to see him, she did not show it.

“Valar Dohaeris, Lorathi.” She said nodding to him with her back turned. She calmly turned to face him, grey eyes meeting bronze. “A man desires a girl’s attention?” She inquired. Her eyes grey orbs coolly assessing him.

 He let out a slow sigh and nodded in confirmation.

“A man has... Something which would be of interest to a girl. She may need this tutelage in the future.” Her eyebrows rose. His lovely girl was always looking for self-improvement; such was the reason her rooms were filled with the books of the temple, always reading; always learning.

They walked in companionable silence through the temple, down the dark winding corridors. The halls were filled with statues and monuments of all kinds. They were all illuminated by candles which gave light and atmosphere to the otherwise grey halls. The familiar aroma of the temple getting stronger the further she descended through the halls.

The scent of the temple had always been a source of familiarity and comfort for all the acolytes that would come to the temple. It essence originating from the deep down below the temple. One of the close-guarded secrets, which none but a select few would know about.

After making a turn down one of the hallways, they arrived at an empty doorway. Inside his robe, The Lorathi pulled out a small badge. It was dark, almost black, yet it shone enough to allow the hidden figures see it’s significance. They stepped out from the shadows and bowed their heads. The two men were bald and both armed with daggers.

“Mister Lorathi,” they nodded in The Lorathi’s direction. “Mistress Stranger,” they inclined their head towards her form, to which they nodded in return.

The two figures stepped aside, and they both entered a heavily decorated corridor, leading to a large, prestigious room. There were men and women inside the room quietly conversing. One woman approached them. She was dressed in black leather and furs with high boots which reminded her of her own. She had a necklace tight around her throat which seemed to glow in the dim light of the room.

She clapped her hands together as she approached. “Ah, The Stranger has finally arrived at our doorstep. Thank you for bringing her here, Lorathi.” She inclined her head towards the Lorathi.

“A man is sorry, lovely girl. He did not want this for you.” He inclined his head towards her.

…

She looked calmly between the two enigmatic characters and merely chose to trust instinct this time. She inclined her head in return. _The Stranger…_ Somehow it seemed fitting, yet hostile simultaneously. The dark haired, dark-clad woman smiled at her and signalled her to follow.

No one had decided to acquiesce to his vagueness. There would be time for questions later, and she would be informed if the need for her to know something arose.

She followed her around the richly decorated room until they reached a large shelf. The woman held the book out for her to inspect. The book was black and seemingly plain.

Opening the book, the pages were empty, without any script or pictures. Her brows furrowed as she gazed at The Lorathi.

The Lorathi took the book from her grasp, and his eyes turned black as he seemingly focused upon the cover of the book. The book began smoking a rich black, and soon his concentration broke.

He opened the book and revealed its new content. There were pictures, texts and illustrations littered throughout, yet one theme remained between all of them: _Magic._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya gets her title, and we have many small plot points in here.  
> The vision in the flames is important if you missed it. It explains the vagueness of the Ambraysis chapter, and why there are no dragons. More on that later.
> 
> The secret place by the bottom of the temples will be explained next chapter since a drew this out so much. I felt it was important to establish the place before mentioning it.  
> Like all important things, however, it will be explained in a small line here and there, just to keep you guys looking!
> 
> Love you all, thanks for reading.


	7. Questions, answers, and friendships

AN: Geez, it’s been a while! Regardless, here is the longest chapter I have ever posted. I took me such a long time to get this out since I just recently began on my exam projects. At the same time, I am sad to say that my aunt diseased after a long struggle with cancer. Yet everything comes to those who wait, and you guys have been waiting patiently for a long time now. Hope this chapter can compensate for my lack of posting lately.

Again, comments mean the world to me and are the things which keep me sane while going through these long processes. ;)

 

* * *

 

 

**The Lorathi**

 

The Stranger circled him like a predator. Grey eyes calculating, estimating every move he could possibly make and how she would counter. No words need be spoken, their stance and faces said all. The thrill of the fight coursing through their blood making seconds turn to minutes, and minutes to hours.

Nothing kept a faceless man running like the call to battle. The call to service. The girl was developing at a speed many in the temple found alarming, yet he could only praise her for the attentiveness she now possessed. Once defiant and sometimes reluctant in different circumstances, the girl had grown in many ways ever since those fateful nights when she had been punished.

The experience had scarred her in more ways than one. Her original skin would forever speak of the torment she had suffered in that time, and yet her mind spoke even more. This was likely how she lost the wilfulness. The trait had been a torment for herself when she first started in the temple. The reluctance of losing oneself; forsaking one’s own identity for the usefulness of another’s.

What was more than admirable, was how her unconditioned body adjusted to the pain. Regardless of the mental and physical torment, she was subject to, an unconscious constant thrummed within her body.  

It was not a will to live, for even that had she given up at one point. It was the desire to give herself for a cause. For a purpose. To have a justification. Whether that purpose would be dark, or less so.

The determination to make things matter, and to shape the world would forever run through her veins. She would bleed herself till her very veins ran dry if it meant achieving the desired end. Few could boast of such self-sacrifice, and even less act upon it.

Death has an ironic way in such circumstances as these. Often it is those with the most willingness to live, who are taken away before one would expect.

Those who desire for death, yet do little to enable the status, rarely receive what they desire. This same rule applied for the girl, for when she had given up the struggle and accepted her demise, death would not come.

She waited a fortnight for death to take her, yet when she called, he would not grant her the mercy she desired.

His reverie was broken by sparks flying anew from the blades they wielded. To the casual observer, they would appear to be dancing; each exchanging blows before returning with counters, parries, and ripostes. The observant would notice an entirely different dance. One devoted to death at every blow, at every flourish. Every move was intended as either a killing blow or a deflection, yet the blades kept whirling in the dim room, and not a drop of red stained the ground.

This would change, of course, as sacrifices were made by one to advance on the other. Small cuts would slowly appear along the planes their forearms as the blades kept crashing. All calculated, shallow surface wounds, which would sting, yet do little else. Even the injuries sustained was calculated, evaluated, and accounted for.

The amount of blood lost was also paramount, as sweat also slowly stained their clothes. She had chosen a dark, thin top for this training session, and was, therefore, more suited to a long-term fight.

Swift, infused strikes, of a calibre the girl had never faced before struck towards her centre, and she only managed to block it just in time, as not to get mutilated by his weapons. Her block, however effective at protecting her body came at an awkward angle, and subsequently sent her blades clattering onto the floorboards.

Grey eyes gazed at The Stranger’s hands for a moment, seemingly confused, before letting out a low growl. Quickly regaining her composure, she went to pick up the blades, as calm cool blood flowed through her veins once more. He walked to where she was stood and gazed down at her fondly.

“Perhaps a girl should try a different approach. Since a girl is already prioritising speed and agility, as well as wrist-work, perhaps the inverse grip would suit her more.” She considered for a moment before nodding her assent to take the suggestion.

The new grip, together with her favouring her left made the angles of attack the most unorthodox they possibly could, and when the whirls of steel confronted him, The Lorathi was already on his backfoot. The amount of momentum the style would gain before each blow was staggering. Not only that, it was unparalleled with regards to fighting multiple enemies at once.

He allowed her to test all the angles of attack, slowly straining her wrists and learning completely new move sets for the two blades she trained with. He concentrated for a moment before executing the same move as he had before. This time, she dodged the first swipe and deflected the second. She counterattacked but was stopped quickly by the force of his blows.

He was powerful where she was nimble. He was brutal where she was precise. He nodded quietly, even as her blades clattered to the floor once more. “Much better, lovely girl.” She cocked her head to the side.

“A girl could barely hold her blades,” She protested, her eyes dead to anyone but him. “A girl should be admonished.” She was slightly frustrated, yet more than that, she wished to improve.

“Supernatural strength can never be matched by a natural one.” The Lorathi pointed out.

“Supernatural? A girl believed she was already subject to such a phenomenon.” The Stranger’s brows furrowed, breath now under control. Her stance composed into the perfected deadly, yet lazy stance they would often employ.

“A girl would need her book for such instruction.” He smirked at her.

Before long, she had acquired the book from her chambers and was staring at the empty pages. The book was still completely black on the cover, and the pages empty. She had apparently not been instructed in his absence. _Good,_ he thought. _Magic is not a subject to take lightly._

“A girl should close her eyes and expand her consciousness.” He started. “Allow the book to become part of a girl’s mind. Allow it access to the deepest parts of a girl. Even the parts she, herself will not indulge in.” His voice ran through the room, and her eyes seemed to be focusing behind the lids. She had found something.

The front of the book began to glow, and letters started engraving themselves upon the cover. The letters shone golden, before turning a bright and gleaming silver. He stared at the book as the letters became visible, making up the cover and content that would be hers and hers alone.

He stared at the cover as it became intelligible. They were right. They were _all_ right. He had been doubtful at first, yet now it was both fitting and evident. The Lorathi stared at the now-complete cover and noted the importance of this moment. All of it summarised in the title of the book. The title that his lovely girl had made all by herself. All by her mind; whether consciously or subconsciously.

The title would be a sign of the wars to come, for gleaming in the dim lights of the room, there it was:

_The book of The Stranger._

* * *

 

 

**The Stranger**

 

Her muscles ached, yet there was a sense of finality to her mind. She was done, she knew. Yet she doubted whether she had succeeded in this, which was quite possibly the most menial of magical tasks for the man in front of her.

She opened her eyes once more, and the book bore a title. A title, a child long dead had been meant to fear. She never had, and she didn’t now.

She opened the book, wishing to inspect the contents only to find it empty. Full of blank pages to fill. She raised her eyes to The Lorathi who had a pleased expression offered only for her. She went all the way to the start. There, she found four different animals listed on the page.

_Direwolf,_

_Cat,_

_Panther,_

_Raven,_

Her brows furrowed as she tried making sense. An old voice rang in her ears as time seemed to slow. “ _Watching is not seeing, dead girl.”_ Suddenly, lines connected, and patterns emerged from where they were once obscure.

_The skin-changing._ Her mind helpfully supplied. She lifted her eyes to see The Lorathi, who only appeared confused as to the seemingly random text in the book. The book seemed to be a book of accomplishments. A reference to one’s own learnings and experience.

The list was obviously incomplete. Evident from the use commas rather than periods. Luckily, he did not question her on these things and proceeded to take the book from her hands.

“A book will document a girl’s learnings. Make sure she does not forget.” The Lorathi nodded towards her, emphasising his point.

“A girl forgets nothing.” She admonished him, to which he narrowed his eyes sceptically at her brazenness.

“A girl forgets anything her Kindly Man wishes her to forget. This book does not have the same weakness.” Rebuked, she was put back in her place. He did not speak lies, after all. Moreover, to contradict would be at her own peril.

She humbled herself in front of him and bowed her head in submission. The Lorathi’s kind smile returned to his bronze eyes.

A wave of his hand and the text evaporated from the book in small sparks. The Lorathi focused once more on the book, and his own version appeared once more. He broke his concentration and confided with her:

“This book. It is a private thing; something you should only show to the ones you trust more than you do yourself.” His bronze gaze bore into her steel grey. Those eyes penetrated her form, looking through her as if she were window panes. He sighed.

“A man would do this for none else.” He placed the book in her hand and flipped to the first page, and one the first line was a string of symbols she did not recognise. He pointed to the line and elaborated: “A girl would learn from this book if she desires. It contains many enchantments; old and new. Some which have their practical uses, others should never be employed. Especially not by you, lovely girl.”

Dark brows furrowed. “Why should a girl not use such enchantments?” She questioned, her gaze sceptical.

“A man could not bear the consequences, should she choose to do so.” His voice melancholic and his smile now sardonic. “A man did not want this for you, lovely girl. The world of magic is not one of adventure and mischief. It is a thing all on its own, with unforeseen risks which could destroy any man, should he choose to meddle where he does not belong.”

 He paused for a moment, his words hanging in the air. When she affirmed that she had understood, he went on to place the book in her hands.

“Focus on the lines, lovely girl. Focus well, and the book will reveal what it knows.” She blinked at the vague, and seemingly unfollowable orders. Nevertheless, No one closed her eyes and concentrated on her mental image of the lines the Lorathi’s book afforded. The symbols spun in her head, changing from one colour to the next. There seemed to be no end to her confusion before the symbols began to glow, and she was enlightened.

The runes etched upon the book was a script to keep another individual’s version of this book. A method to which she would always open the book. She saw now. Naturally, this spell would be the first in his book. He had a mentor once, as well. A book from which The Lorathi had learned from, and from the significance of his words, he had learned more than he originally wished.

Even that would be recorded in this book. The darkest, most horrifying things this man had ever experienced would all be documented here in some sort or another. And rather than frightening her, the thought sent a thrill down her spine. Sensing her excitement, the Lorathi chuckled and gazed at her fondly. “A man would admonish a girl for the misplaced excitement…”

“Yet a man would have it no other way.” She finished his sentence for him. His smirk widened and his eyes glinted in the candlelight.

“Just so. Yet a man recalls a girl have more questions… Something which she would need a man’s full attention for.” She blinked for a second, then began fishing in her pockets. No one pulled the three stones out after a few short moments.

She placed the three black stones in his hands, and his brows furrowed, to which her dark ones rose _._ He kept his gaze for a few seconds, before raising guarded eyes at her once more.

“These are world corners, lovely girl. Where in Braavos would such things fall in a girl’s hands?” His voice was calm, yet she detected small traces of confusion there. Well, he gave her identification; she would supply location.

“A girl found these stones in the pockets of the bodies a girl was sent to investigate. Four aristocrats missing, only three found dead.” The Lorathi sighed and ran a hand through his scarlet locks.

“Stones such as these were used to contain the aether and other primal forces of nature, once they were first set free after the doom. Not to lock them away, yet merely contain their presence in the corners of the world, such that the rest could flourish.”

Dark brows furrowed, and lines of worry appeared on her forehead. Grey eyes seeking bronze, looking for answers and enlightenment. Different sentiments came to mind, yet none influenced her persona; the cocoon of mental protection she had wound around her consciousness still maintained and sustained her. On the matters horror and worry, one must always separate the emotion from impacting the consideration in every other way than accounting those of others.

“Do not fret, lovely girl. The placement of these stones would be more like symbols, rather than material use.” A deft hand smoothed the lines in her face, and she relaxed at his touch. Such tenseness permeated everything these days. So much, that she often allowed herself to forget the small pleasures of life. The few pleasures their kind were afforded in appeasement for their restless souls.

She offered him a small smile in reassurance.

“The aether were the separate winds which governed the world long before the first man. All vying for dominance in a world that was nought but animals and nature. When the first men originated and began occupying the land they would commune with these elements. They could earn hospitality in different locations around the known world, by making offerings in return.

When one would traverse the terrain into inhospitable territory, survival would slowly become impossible. Whether it was to the north, south, east, or west. The climate would never welcome them, should they venture too far.

Across the years, deals were made, and men were offered such stones as markers; all this to help men and nature coexist. “

Such went the history lesson until The Lorathi paused. “The rest you will know from your Kindly Man. A man believes he owes a girl an explanation.” His smirk returned as his telling ended. The girl sighed in return.

“Explanations of that, and many others.” Her eyes were wistful. So much had been kept from her in the past, and still, secrets and locked doors awaited her at every turn.

“Braavos is the city of secrets. If her Kindly Man told all at once, a most lovely girl would hardly be ready for them. Yet a man believes a girl is owed this secret, at least.” Bronze eyes looked at her softly.

She inclined her head, nodding towards her original mentor. How different she had become from the girl who first came to this temple. Though this outcome was not the intention of her original self, she remained amazed at how one individual could be so wholly changed by another.

Never, would any faceless complain of their position in life, yet no Lorathi ever intended to end in the position they did. They would never complain, for no Lorathi who had a weak mind would ever survive the initiation, much less the training. And if by chance, one would be fortunate enough to survive such trials, none would the discipline. Not without the strength of will, resourcefulness, and the willingness to adapt which characterised their order.

“A girl should study as much as she can, for she will receive another mentor soon; one who will show a girl what all others cannot.” The Lorathi concluded, breaking her out of her reverie.

“A man has seen a girl’s quarters. He should know that a girl would not let such an opportunity go wasted.” She said reassuringly.

“Indeed, it is just as a man feared.” He cupped her cheek and smoothed the confused frown now on her face. He was asked to elaborate, yet her wish would not be fulfilled this day. He smiled sardonically, and she knew what was coming next.

“A girl should go, she has much business with our Elder to speak of.” She nodded and turned in the opposite direction backing away slowly, and breaking his hold.

After a brief time, her speed resumed, moving hastily to find her old mentor in whatever alcove in which he had chosen to hide this time.

The large halls with enormous statues connected by narrow tunnels funnelled her through the temple until the sound of a walking pattern was recognised. The very soft sounds that characterised the individuals of their order, yet the order of footsteps was unique in and of itself. No one had by experience learned which footsteps belonged to whom.

When she was blinded she was taught to interpret footsteps the hard way; through sheer trial, error, and punishment at failure. No one had come to know that these were the shuffling footsteps of the very man she was looking for. Preparing herself for anything that might happen, her stance became calm like the sweet scent of the temple which filled her lungs with every breath.

“A girl has been searching for her mentor,” No one called out to the shadows, her voice soft as silk, “would he care to join her?”  He emerged within a short span of time, a pleasant smile defining his features. His stance was relaxed and had no poise to attack. _No trial. Not this time._ She let her thoughts flow through her mind and fixated on the oldest secret which she had been denied.

They entered a small corridor, in which they would speak in peace; with only the smallest of rumblings as their companions. No one sat cross-legged before her mentor, his old yet kind features on display by the seemingly endless candle lights of the temple.

“Long ago,” she started. “A man told a girl that the first faceless man originated in the slave mines of the fourteen flames. That he heard the prayers of death from slaves and would grant them the gift they so desired.” The Kindly Man nodded in response. “A man told a girl that he would give the gift to the masters as well. That the remainder of the story was best saved for another time; one best shared with No one. Who am I?”

Now, his fond smile stretched across his old features and pride filled his visage. “No one.” He relented. A strange form of accomplishment settled in her chest, before fading and giving way to the soulful peace which would be necessary for the control that was required of a faceless man. She was now owed an explanation, and for that purpose, he would now serve.

“The first faceless man was no slave himself,” no one was informed. “He was but a mere witness to their suffering and would thus grant them rest from their plight. The first faceless would give the gift to the masters when the time came, yet before then many preparations would need to be made.” She inclined her head, asking him to continue.

“The slaves would pray for death, for at the beginning, no end would ever come for them. The men of old Valyria were adept with magic, yet the only thing which surpassed their ability with magic was their greed. Their desire for wealth, territory, and most of all, _life_.” The implication was obvious, and No one’s eyes widened at the sentiment.

“The Valyrians achieved eternal life?” She queried. The inclination to the notion was not enough, clarification was required. To her own surprise, he nodded in return.

“Through their expertise, they became well-versed in the ways of life, thus forgoing the ways of death. The entire realm of Valyria was shrouded from the view of Him of the Many Faces. This was all until their own hubris became their downfall. So confident were they in the dealings of nature, that they forgot that all things have a price.” Realisation dawned on No one’s features.

“Thus, their own pride and ability ultimately culminated as their own doom; The Doom of Valyria. Yet one question remains: who was the initiator? The first faceless men were largely favoured by Him of The Many faces, and in return for their service, they were granted a boon.” He smiled fondly as if reminiscing about this mysterious man who started the elaborate network of assassins the world had ever seen.

“The first servants of Him of the Many Faces were dwellers in the underworld. They loved the underground as men love the rustling of leaves and the flowing of a sweet water river. In Essos, they are commonly referred to as the Jogos Nhai, yet in Westeros, they have a different kind. One more adapt in the dense and lush forests that permeate those lands. The people of Westeros would often refer to these ancient people as _The Children of The Forest,_ though most believe them to be extinct.”

Her mind was reeling, eyes wide, expression incredulous. Suddenly, an entire web of knowledge was unlocked. Everything all connected; it all made sense, and the remaining details now consisted of nought but mere formality.

Sensing her need for reflection and private exploration of the revelations, he put a hand on her shoulder. “You should rest, Stranger. The future is always in motion, so too much concern for the past can be a hindrance. Not only that, there are duties for which I will require your services later.”

She smiled back at her mentor’s intuition. “Valar Morghulis.” She acknowledged relented.

“Valar Dohaeris.” He returned, his kind smile still the same reassurance it had been all those years ago; yet now, the sentiment in her stomach had changed.

 

* * *

 

 

**Gendry Waters**

 

Gendry heard a distinct roar in the distance.

He had been sailing on the accursed ship for at least a fortnight, yet the time spent on the deck, hardly ever contributing to anything of value was tiresome. It weighed him down as if carrying an anvil tied to his back. Never could he get the reprieve he desired from his frantic mind, always buzzing, always nagging.

He could never rest under these circumstances. When he had things to do, sleep was never an issue. He would always be left exhausted and searching for rest by the end of the day, and the rest by his bed would allow him to work once more the next day. Mostly, at least.

The hopeful look on Jon Snow’s face as he was questioned as to the relation he had with his sister made him feel all the worse for the treatment he had offered her so long ago. He subsequently felt that he had atonement to endure for what he did. He let her down when she needed him the most. He was the one responsible for her disappearance from the face Westeros.

A great deal of Westeros had been investigated when Jon Snow first arose to power. Such is how the king had come to meet Gendry initially. He had information to offer, and the newly crowned King in the North would see to it, that he had a good establishment, and work in the newly reclaimed Winterfell.

For a time, all was good, until he overheard a conversation about her. Arya Stark. The ghost that now seemed to haunt his ever waking moment. The guilt would be easier to bear, had it not been for King Snow’s kindness.

The man, a bastard like himself, had offered Gendry all he could ever desire. A blacksmith all of his own, unique and interesting problems to resolve, as well as plenty of trade to fill his pockets. He also made for good company when he managed the wrestle a smile from the burdened king. This was why he often worked day and night at the end of the month. Not to fill his pockets further, or to contribute more, faster; but rather to offer his aid in finding the lost princess of the north, and returning her to where she belonged.

She had not been easy to receive any leads on, yet it seemed that the princess Sansa Stark had the most hopeful clue. The princess had caught wind of Arya’s water dancing lessons, as well as the origin of the man who had trained her. Perhaps, if she had nowhere else to go, Arya would seek refuge at her mentor’s old home.

There were naturally preparations that had to be made. In Gendry's absence, the smithy of Winterfell would be left vacant, and forging would slow down to a halt. Thus, he had made sure that new recruits were ready for when he left, such that the establishment could continue its business despite his absence. Gendry remembered their faces as the large ship pierced the fogs enveloping them.

In the sky, two enormous glowing orange orbs appeared through the heavy mist. The orbs seemed to be getting increasingly closer until they were obstructed, and the air changed. The thick fog lifted slightly, as Braavos came into view. The climate had shifted almost completely, from the ice-cold sea breeze he had faced earlier. The climate here was warm and comfortable within the natural walls of the lagoon.

The port was nearing, and he went over his plan in his mind for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Braavos was a strange place compared to everywhere else he had been. It seemed the people cared little for each other in their casual demeanour, yet elsewhere, he would see one stranger helping the other as if they had known the other all their life. The Braavosi were a proud, tribal and individualistic people. Joining their ranks, and earning their respect was no small feat, yet when achieved; they would never give up on their townsmen.

The clean air of Purple Harbour greeted Gendry warmly, with courtesans in their barges and wealthy men roaming the streets at this hour. There was chatter everywhere, and Gendry felt entirely left out as the Braavosi tongue permeated the air around him.

All around him, young beautiful women paraded themselves around the streets of Purple Harbour. Easy chatter, giggles and courtesies were traded seamlessly. He made to get away until he saw a short dark-haired girl walking the opposite direction from him. She was wearing a dress that stopped just below the knees. It was a dark blue that gave way to white at the sleeves.

_This is too easy,_ his mind told him. That could not be Arya, merely walking in front of him, just as he arrived.

Regardless, he had to check, even if it was at his own peril. He began running after the girl, quickly gaining ground on her. She looked briefly to the side, before turning to a parallel street. He ran as fast he could, turning the corner he saw the setting of the street.

It was a dark and gloomy street. Not any circumstances a princess should ever acquaint herself with. Yet Arya had always been stubborn. Some scary alleys or a vague threat of violence would hardly sway her.

“Arya! Arya Stark!” He called out into the dark alley. The sun was fading in the distance, and the alley lay between two close residencies making the streets almost completely black, save a few areas where a few rays would reach the street.

He began slowly walking into the darkness, which hardly seemed like a welcome place. Nonetheless, he would do anything in his power to bring his king’s sister back to him. A few seconds passed as he walked in the darkness, and he heard a voice behind him that did not belong to his old friend.

“You should not be looking here for Arya Stark.” The voice called out in the darkness. In a deliberate motion, the woman who was not Arya Stark stepped into the light. Her face bore somewhat of a resemblance to Arya’s, yet it was completely different all the same.

“And why would I not? As far as I remember, she was interested in Braavos, even as a child.” He was not like to merely take this woman on her word. He would search till the ends of the earth if necessary. Not only that, the woman seemed to know Arya, and if she could provide any information, it would be more than useful.

“For you will not find what you seek. Arya Stark is gone. There is no use in searching for her.” The Braavosi woman answered him calmly. Her expression bore that of emptiness, yet he was still not inclined to believe her. Arya was strong and had a will to live. She would not come so far only to fall.

He shook his head in disagreement. “You know Arya?” He asked this impossibly vague girl who, for some reason, was both loved by the people, yet not intimidated by his large stature whatsoever. In many ways, she was just like Arya, yet in many others, she was completely different.

“I did, and I did not. We were acquaintances while she was here. Take my advice; do not seek her out. You will not find her, lest she wishes it. Braavos is the city of secrets for a reason. You will find nothing here, lest it wishes to be.” The girl finished. She started walking away, and Gendry was close to stopping her in her tracks, wishing the opportunity of asking this mystery girl more questions, yet she beat him to it.

“Oh, a piece of advice, do not choose to visit The Blue Lantern within this fortnight. There is a blood-hungry Valyrian out for all things Baratheon.” And with that, the darkness enveloped her. She was gone as if she had never been there. Not even footprints were left in her wake.

_Who are you?_ His mind chorused.

 

* * *

 

 

**Daenerys Targaryen**

 

The theatre performance, that Ser Willem had taken her to, had inspired new fervour in Dany. Where before, everything had seemed hopeless and trivial, the display of human talent had given her a new reason for being. A desire to help and create. Somehow, she wished to help the people in the world to have the same opportunities she was presented now.

Firstly, she would need to find a line of work. Much to Ser Willem’s objections, she could not let him take care of her constantly. Not only that, the finances in the household that she desired were difficult to keep up with, now that he had no sponsor from Illyrio Mopatis. They had harvested some of the lemons growing on the lemon tree, and Dany had entered the Braavosi squares to sell them.

Here she had fetched a handsome reward for the uncommon fruit. These were the only ones which grew in Braavos, after all. And if anything, the Braavosi was a proud people who relished in the fruits of their own lagoon. They were, therefore, willing to pay an extra fee because of the nature of the origin of the fruit, together with its freshness.

Dany had eagerly brought the fruits of her labour home, and presented them to Ser Willem, once again feeling like the child who had thrived under his roof. She felt happy and safe under his protection, so she dared wander the docks.

Here she spent the most the day, gazing out to the ships that went to and from the many harbours of Braavos without stop. Many ships were for trading, others were for transport, yet the ones which truly caught her attention were the ones harbouring former slaves. It was all done in absolute secrecy, so it was difficult to find, yet when she did, she could not escape the happy faces of those freed. The absolute relief on the subjects faced was edged into her mind, and she believed she had found her purpose.

For this reason, Dany had approached the men on the docks who were ushering the men, women, and children along towards a better future. At first, they were wary of her presence. This was made even by her Valyrian heritage, and never had she been as frustrated with her lineage. In the end, they let the Braavosi pragmatism shine through when they discovered she had no other motives than to help.

The former slaves were clothed and fed. They had their collars removed, and their slave tattoos burnt off with a hot piece of metal. It was hard work, and a painful process for the slaves, yet when finished, they had never looked more stunned. These were men who had been ordered around all their lives. They had no notion of what they wished to do, now that they were free. In this way, freedom was both joyous and frightening. Those were worries for another time, as a wealthy man of the group invited all for a cup of ale at the nearest inn.

All were welcomed warmly in the Inn of the Green Eel, as they were bathed in the warm golden light of the room. Though most of these individuals hardly were what Ser Willem would define as suitable companions for her, she felt at home amongst them. Each person was gradually warming up to her, and their previously judgmental gazes were now nowhere to be found.

They laughed and japed, gossiped, and cheered. All were beginning to fall deep in their cups, yet Dany had preferred to stay away from drink, at least for tonight. There was one other man, with dark golden hair framing smooth, almost childlike features who looked burdened upon Dany. He was the man who had generously offered all of the company food and drink. He was generally a cheerful man, who has quick to laugh and had quick retorts to any and all japes others had to offer.

He always held himself calmly, always certain of the next step. Yet now, he looked burdened; as if he knew something, yet had no way of getting it off of his chest. Hesitantly, Dany stood up from where she sat and began walking towards a darker, more private area of the inn. Dany caught his attention and waved him over, asking him to follow.

In the darkened area, the loud jests and japes of the Inn almost faded completely, as everything became more discrete. Dany seated herself in one of the pillowed wooden chairs as he approached. His eyes made him seem much older than he was, for when he closed his eyes, he immediate took on the appearance of one five years younger than the man had to be.

“Something on your mind?” She asked the man cautiously. Dany had learned Braavosi rather well from her original time in Braavos, yet sometimes the language eluded her still.

“There is something you ought to know, princess. This was hardly the place I wished to tell you this, yet tit seems I am given no other option.” The man responded to her in fluent Westerosi, so the man was a noble after all. Not only that, he knew of her rightful title as princess of Westeros. Yet his eyes were hardly malicious, and for some reason, Dany trusted this man.

She gestured for him to elaborate, and he shifted nervously in front of her. “It’s your brother, princess; He is here in Braavos.” Purple eyes widened as Dany stiffened in her seat. She managed to keep her breathing under control. _The monster was here, following her footsteps._ She gulped as she looked pleadingly at the man she had come to like in their brief time together.

“Pardon my lady, but I believe he is looking for you. Going out at this time of night might not be an ideal course of action.” He elaborated. He had clearly understood that she and her brother were not exactly on friendly terms. She nodded her thanks to him and bid his leave. She had many things clouding her mind. Worries and problems seemed to arise wherever she looked.

The more she reasoned, the more problems she encountered. If she stayed at the inn, Ser Willem would undoubtedly come looking for her. Thus, if she chose to stay, she would be putting him in danger. He had only escaped Viserys’ wrath once, doing so another time now with the party of men he would have to call such attention, would be unlikely. Yet if she chose to go herself, she would risk herself being captured by Viserys and his men. No matter what, there would be a chance of one of them being caught.

She had to make the journey home. If Ser Willem was to come look for her and was captured, they could find her through him. The only way to minimise the potential risk of hurt was to go herself. If she was captured, and Willem went looking, he would merely find nothing. Yet if she chose to stay, Ser Willem would find an angry, mad, King of Westeros.

She steeled herself and bid goodnight to her companions. They were all sad to see her go, yet she had made her mind now. As she left the inn, the nightly breeze and fog assaulted her from all sides. She had not gone out equipped for the nightly weather of Braavos, and now she was paying the price. Most of the streets of Ragman’s Harbour were empty at this time of night and were therefore relatively safe. The only sound she would find for longer periods of time were the crunch of her boots against the gravel. Yet throughout her stride, Dany felt eyes on her. Sometimes many, sometimes few. Sometimes she would hear rustling here and there, only for it to disappear later on.

She heard some graceless footsteps moving in her general direction and therefore increased her pace to running. Behind her, Dany found the water dancers had lost her in the dark foggy allies, yet she shivered to imagine what the result would be if they would find her. She continued in a hasty pace down the damp mazes that built up The Secret City.

 None of the water dancers of Braavos wore metal armour, only boiled leather at most. Therefore, Dany was shocked as she heard the familiar clink of metal armour down the alley she had just turned to.  They alley was small, dark and damp, and a dark, bearded man spotted her from where she stood, frozen on the spot. From behind the man, another appeared in the same Dornish armour, a sinister grin now covering both their faces. Her brother was not there. Viserys had merely sent them off to do his chores.

Dany clutched the knife she had brought to cut the lemons she had sold earlier on the day.

“Ah, Princess Daenerys. How lovely that you would join us.” They began moving towards her after a brief nod to each other. Her brother obviously cared little for her consent in joining him.

As they got closer, she lashed out with her dagger. “Leave me be!” Her panic-stricken voice filled the darkened street. The Dornishmen merely took a step back, as her strike missed. Graceless feet also approached her from behind, as the water dancers she had earlier eluded came to a stop behind her. At the sight of the water dancers, both knights drew their swords.

They narrowed their eyes, as the water dancers mirrored the motion. The Dornishmen pushed her Dany off the side as the two began small groups began circling each other. Dany spotted a corner darker than everywhere else around it and chose there to hide as one of the Braavosi sheathed their sword.

“Honourable knights,” exclaimed the water dancer, his Westerosi tainted with the Braavosi tongue, “we need no conflict with each other. I believe all of us here are looking for a good time!” The man grinned.

A moment went, and Dany saw from the corner of her eye, as every man sheathed his sword and looked around. “Wait, where is the little whore?” The first Dornishman seethed, his eyes hungry as it roamed the darkened street.

Dany held her breath as the soldiers began their search. It would only be a matter of time before they found her. Only a matter of time before all of her dignity and humanity would be stripped from her, ultimately by the same man’s hands once more.

A shriek pierced the street, as a raven called from above the narrow alley.

“It will only be worse for you, once we finally find you.” The second Dornishman called out.

“The multiplying villainies of nature do _swarm_ upon her.” A quiet voice filled the street. This was not one of the soldiers from before. The accent was Westerosi, sly, and in some places noble even. Dany looked out from her hiding spot, only to find a small person in a black and white cloak standing in the middle of the recently gathered party.

Stormy grey orbs caught her own violet ones as if looking through her, and in the process, discovered where she hid.

Dany quickly reclined back into hiding and shivered. The first Dornishman’s voice now filled the street once more. “Who in the sevens hells do you believe you are?” Unfazed, the newcomer merely moved over to where Dany hid, the gravel crunching silently beneath her black boots in graceful steps.

When the cloaked figure stopped in front of Dany, they dropped to one knee and removed the hood which covered their features. Once the cowl had slipped, it revealed a pale and scarred woman beneath the hood. She smiled reassuringly and offered Dany a hand. She reluctantly took her offer, for a reason she did not yet know. The girl turned her gaze to Dany’s previous offenders.

The Braavosi repulsed as they took in the woman’s features, and nervous voices rang out through the street: “Pardon mistress,” Her offenders mumbled in hasty Braavosi. “We will bother you no further.” They all turned, hastily shuffling out from the alley where she had been cornered.

The two Dornishmen looked both puzzled and enraged, as their newly-gained allies dispersed immediately. “Ey! Who do you think you are!” They exclaimed, almost in unison.

She brushed her raven coloured hair to the side of her face, revealing a long gnarling scar running down her face. “If you do not know, then you are most certainly out of your depth, young men.” Her eyes followed where the Braavosi individuals had landed before and saw that they had noticed the deep red marker long before anyone else, and now it all made sense.

_It was her. She was the ghoul who fought the first sword._ When she was roaming the docks, Dany had overheard the ruckus as the young water dancers assembled to watch the two fight once more.

“For your own sake, I recommend you return to your king, and tell him that his sister is under the protection of The House of Black and White.” The two men’s eyes widened and backed away, “She will be bothered no further by his obscene demands. Braavos is the only free city that is truly free, and no matter how mad the other rulers in the world may be, the faceless will never stand by any limitation of autonomy; man, or otherwise.” The ghoul continued.

“Do not reply, merely turn around, appear frightened, and _scuttle_.” Her last words were expressed with an iron will laced with contempt.

The ghoul had successfully sent the two Dornishmen running, their graceless steps leaving her on her own with the deathly stranger. The girl was of pale skin and almost black hair.

“I can assure you, I mean you no harm.” Her voice was now gentle, rather than the hard steel which had been employed on the soldiers. Dany was shaking as she gazed upon this stranger who had seemingly saved her, yet seemed the last person in the world she should trust. In a search for any defence; anything she could latch onto, she exclaimed, “I didn’t need your help!” The dagger she was holding escaped her fingers and was sent

The ghoul offered her a small smile as she dropped to one knee, and picked up the weapon by the blade. “Yes. I see you clearly had everything under control.” The soft voice soothed with a hint of amusement. Tears pricked Dany’s eyes as she snatched the blade out from the ghoul’s grasp, leaving her hand suspended.

Unbidden, Dany was taken back to when she was under Viserys’ control. Where he had transformed her from the innocent girl she was, to the woman she was today. How he would have her in whichever way he wished to ‘prepare’ her for what she was to face.

Dany collapsed, bounding in on herself only to find lean arms holding her up in an embrace. Dany was shivering, cold, frightened and could no longer hold back her emotions as she sobbed into her saviour’s shoulder. She took in a breath of leather, linen and sea breeze, with an undercurrent of pine and forest.

The servant of death remained steadfast as she clutched her saviour tightly for what seemed like minutes until she shivered in the otherwise warm embrace. The girl shrugged off her black and white cloak and proceeded to wrap it around Dany’s shivering form. Dany was immediately felt warmth begin to course through her fingers once more, as the leather and linen cloak flowed around her frame. The clothing was a little large for Dany, yet immediately warmed her from the residing heat of its previous wearer.

“Thank you,” Dany said softly, as she clutched the sturdy cloak she had been offered. “I am sorry for snapping at you.” She was offered a soulful smile in response, as the ghoul raked a hand through her locks.

“Oh, I merely played my part. It’s fine, really. I believe it has been a difficult day for both of us.” Dany only now, gave herself time to notice the ghoul’s attire now that she had taken the cloak off her hands. She was dressed in midnight blue robe, which ended by her lower thighs. At her back, she had two sword hilts jutting off from either side of her body.

“I can walk you home if you like. You still have quite a ways to go, and I believe now, of all times, you would rather not want to be alone.” The taller woman had broken her out of her thoughts, and the mere suggestion of going alone was enough to chill her to the bone once more. She quickly nodded her assent, yet was confused as her mind caught up with the remainder of the ghoul’s offer.

Purple eyes narrowed, “How do you know I still have quite a distance to go?” At her suspicion, the stranger merely smiled.

“A lady from a poor district would hardly have such unmarred skin. Nor would they bathe in scented soaps and fragrances. Not only that, your hands,” a warm hand gripped her own. “are far too smooth to be those of a dockworker. So, you are a lady of Purple Harbour, and very far from home for this time of night.”

The hand released hers, and it fell back to her side under the heavy cloak.

“And you are far away from The House of Black and White for any time at all.” Dany became defensive as the ghoul seemed to have laid her soul bare after all.

“The House of Black and White is never far away for one who knows this city well enough,” the ghoul answered cryptically. “But yes, I am far from The House, because that was not where I was going.”

“Oh, you were going to kill someone then?” Dany blurted out before realising that she was speaking her mind.

The ghoul merely chuckled and turned Dany toward the direction she had originally been going. “No. As I said, it has been a difficult day. For both of us.”

They walked in companionable silence, as they slowly approached The Long Canal. She stole another glance at her grey-eyed saviour and wondered to herself what exactly had led this girl to where she was.

“Why did you save me?” Dany asked after a short while.

“Faceless men care about the city, unbelievably. Regardless of what the Red Priest’s may chant about us.” Dany expected contempt at this, yet was offered disappointment in its stead.

As they crossed The Long Canal, the passed one of the preachers of R’hllor. His chant echoing across the water behind them.

“You let yourself be escorted by the ghouls; the spawn of The Great Other himself!”

Death’s servant sighed, “I am sorry about all this.” She gestured to the offender of their silence.

“Why do they single you out of all faiths?” Daenerys asked apologetically.

The ghoul smiled at this. “The followers of R’hllor view the faceless as their enemies. It is a conflict of interest, you see; we serve death while they serve life. What they have yet to understand is that life and death are not enemies, nor are they opposites. Life and death are one in the same; the former is meaningless without the latter, and thus people assume that they are opposites, made to give perspective.”

A silver brow rose. “And you do not believe this is the case?”

A quick shake of the head was offered in return. “Life and death are inseparable; you cannot view one without the consequence of the other. Life and death are ouroboric, like an enormous spotted snake whose head is constantly devouring its tail. Eventually, the snake cannot keep itself alive, and everything will end, yet this is the reason why meaning is present. All of us, we are merely spots on the snake, trapped within the seemingly infinite circle. And thus, we all end where we began.”

“So, you have no grudge on life?” Dany asked. She was offered a chuckle in return.

“Not at all. The so-called battle between life and death is no battle at all, but rather a conversation.”

They entered the marketplace of Purple Habour, and the large crowds parted as they approached. Painted women blew kisses at them as they passed, and water dancers approached and bowed before her escort. _Is it like this for all of them, or is it merely this one they hold in such high regard?_ Dany wondered. The marketplace was still trading all things from silks to spices, and candles from windows high and low pierced the fog in golden colours.

Many men, women, and sometimes even children approached ghoul and bowed before her in respect before introducing themselves. After a while, Dany grew curious as to the odd display.

“Why do they all do that?”

“The people of Braavos found out, that if we know someone, we cannot be ordered to assassinate them. So,” The ghoul said now looking at Dany. “Do you want to tell me your name?”

“I do not know yours.” Daenerys protested, undaunted.

“To have a name requires a personhood of one’s own, and I have none. It is for that reason that I am no one. And I am sure you already knew that, so why ask?” Death’s servant supplied patiently. She stopped and took the ghouls calloused hands in her own, and saw a slight softening in the steel gaze.

“Because I want to thank you after all of this is over, and somehow I doubt that saying thank you to no one would have the desired effect.” A slight smile spread upon the ghoul’s features predatory features.

“Then you should assign me with a name if it has such a meaning to you.” She returned in her soft, quiet voice.

“Is it really that simple?” Dany asked confused, only to receive a smirk and a small nod in return.

The walked through the active streets of Braavos. Now, with the ghoul at her side, Dany was treated like the princess that she really was, all the townsfolk bowing in respect to them both. The crowd of people rapidly thinned as they approached the part of Purple Harbour in which Dany resided.

As they approached her old home, the ghoul smiled at her. “This is it, then?” She said gesturing to the house with the great red door.

“Am I really that transparent?” Dany asked.

“You’re not even trying.” The ghoul shook her head.

She took Dany’s hand and pressed two small coins into her palm before closing her hands around them.

“What are these?” She asked.

“A debt was owed. The gold is what was originally offered, and the iron is the interest for your patience.” She gestured to the iron coin. “I’ve seen your home, and you know where mine is. Should there be anything you need most desperately, merely knock on our doors and present them with that coin. Ask for _The Stranger_.”

The ghoul’s hands were withdrawn from her own.

“I should be off. I doubt Ser Willem would approve of your escort.” Death’s servant said knowingly.

“You are probably right, Nyx.” Dany supplied.

“Nyx, as in night?” The ghoul questioned.

“The only Rhoynish word I know,” Dany affirmed.

A respectful bow of the head, and then: “So do you want me to tell me your name?” The newly-named ghoul asked.

“My name is Dany.” Daenerys supplied.

“Dany,” Nyx said as if tasting the word as she had her own name just seconds ago. “I will remember that. You should go. I believe Ser Willem will have twice as many grey hairs after this night.” Nyx smiled.

“Thank you,” Dany said sincerely.

Nyx offered her a small bow in return, before returning with graceful steps into the foggy and dark streets which their kind ruled over so entirely.

* * *

 

Some pictures for you all: 

 


	8. Old friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we begin a new format, following my very late return. This will be a short one, yet there will be more coming tomorrow!
> 
> We see the short aftermath of Daenerys' saving, as well as some foreshadowing taking place in the realm they have always belonged ;)

* * *

**Daenerys Targaryen**

* * *

 

Nyx’s reclining figure faded quickly in the thickening fog, and Dany let a long breath escape her lungs. Had it not been for this phantom, seemingly appearing out of nowhere… Only the gods would know what they would have done. As she breathed in the cool evening breeze, she quickly decided to head inside, before the Secret City could present her with even more challenges.

Turning around, she gazed upon the big red door which had welcomed her throughout the innocent days of her childhood. Daenerys felt her shoulders slump as they began to unwind themselves. As she slowly pushed the door open, she was embraced faster than she would have thought the old man capable of. She breathed in the familiar smell of her childhood home, feeling a veil of safety descend upon her, and her heartbeat slow additionally. _That smell..._ So different from the ghoul's, and yet so similar. Both were rustique, lasting; like the walls surrounding the lagoon of Braavos protecting it from the strong winds buffeting on their surfaces, demanding entry.

She felt a rumbling on her cheek which was pressed to his chest as he began to speak, “Princess,” his rusty voice started, “we were terribly worried about you.” He pulled his head back to look at her face, letting his fatherly protectiveness slide as he pulled back, giving her space to close the door behind her.

Noticing his use of the plural her eyes widened involuntarily; who else was here? Why had they come? Would they prove more challenges to her even on this hour? “We?” Dany asked her voice slightly shook as she awaited an answer. When none came and she noticed his bewildered expression, her brows furrowed, “What is it?”

“Your cloak…” He took the cloak in his hands, fingering the strange black and white mixture of linen and leather. Only then had she noticed that the ghoul had left her with the cloak she had been offered and had not sought to get it back. Its weight seemed like a veil, comforting in its weight and protective in its restrictive sturdiness. It's black and white colour symbolising the dichotomy of the house itself. Servitude or death. _But which was which?_  

Lacking any concrete answer that would bring her any peace of mind, much less a father figure obsessed with her safety, she resulted with one of the only truths she knew about the whole encounter. “It’s a long story.” Daenerys sighed, secretly pocketing the two coins she had been offered. The second part of her interaction with the ghoul being even more important to keep secret. The token of favour she had gotten along with the cloak, making her forever remember; forever grateful.

She would keep this secret for her saviour, even if Daenerys herself had to be the one to name her due to her secrecy; even if that saviour walked hand in hand with The Many-Faced God himself.

A telltale sound of armour clanking preceded the voice announcing the second party's presence. “Princess.” A deep, rusty, even familiar voice broke in. She looked up from where she had been absorbed, seeing once more the grizzled face of what could only be the knight who had sworn himself to her many moons ago. She let out a breath as the memories came flooding back; the memories of horse lords, grass plains, and saddle sores. Daenerys quickly barred the gates of her mind that had temporarily been thrown open, trying to wind down again and calm the torrents of her mind. 

“This man claims to know you, Daenerys. He said he had sworn himself to you when you were at Drogo’s side.” Willem Darry broke in before she had a chance to greet the knight.

“Jorah Mormont,” Dany breathed. “What are you doing here?”

He inclined his head from where he knelt upon the ground and took her right hand, covering them with his calloused ones. “I swore to protect you and serve you at your wedding. I would have come to you sooner, had it not been for your brother stealing you away in the night. You shan’t be rid of me so easily, princess.” She felt a small swelling in her heart as she understood his cause of being here. He would not turn tail and run from his vow.

“I understand,” Daenerys said lightly. “It is good to see you again.” This time sincere, her worries slowly faded as the veil of safety which had gradually been built ever since the ghoul's intrusion to all the swordsmen's dismay.

As the warm feeling of contentedness settled in her chest, Daenerys offered her two knights a small smile, assuring she had come to no harm. Her murderous assassin would have to wait with receiving her thanks for now. After another small embrace from Ser Willem, a few reassurances and deflections, Dany eventually excused herself; distracted with a myriad of other things on her mind than the reunion with her sworn sword. She knew they desired answers. She knew, yet found herself selfishly ignoring their demands. As she reclined on the bed, her eyes waned quickly as her body gave up under the exhaustion of the day’s events. She knew trusting the mysterious stranger, whom she even had to name herself would be a mistake, yet she could not shake the feeling of safety as she remembered the cloak she had been offered yet didn’t return.

She would ponder what all this meant, come the morning. For now, she felt content that she had escaped whatever torments her brother would wish upon her. And for that, she would also be grateful to her saviour. Even if that saviour walked hand in hand with The Many-Faced God.

This night, her dreams were nothing but void till an eerie light-blue glow bathed the emptiness around her. Looking to the skies; snow began falling as the winds picked up.

The winds whispered in her ears as she gazed around the flat fields, and found Nyx standing stoically with a skull in her hands. The winds told of lions, of stags, of roses, and snakes. Of krakens, flayed men, trouts, and dragons’ breath.

 _“When winter comes with all its might, only wolves shall howl in the night,”_ they insisted in her ears, as Dany shivered in the face of the winds’ ferocity; the cold winds assaulting her silvery hair, cascading it around her face.

The skull crumbled to dust in Nyx's hands as she turned her gaze to the looming dark horizon. As a voice echoed in the great emptiness.

“ _These are not the wars to come_.”

She looked to the sky to watch the oncoming horizon, only to notice that these were not clouds. The blue of the sky was slowly, methodically being consumed by absolute dark. This was not the turning into a night sky; this was a black, so true and pure in its darkness that nothing else could appear. No stars. No moon. _Nothing._

Shadows surrounded them appearing at the edges of the darkness. Nyx looked around briefly, the stoic face still painted on her shadowed face. She sighed softly before her form vanished, leaving a bright purple light in her wake. The light was fleeting, dark, deceptive, and she could not quite fathom its existence. It circled overtop as the shadows came closer, closer towards where she was. The small light flew away casting Daenerys in shadows, slowly turning to complete darkness. The purple glow sped off into the horizon, growing ever fainter as she traced its path with her eyes.

 _'What is this place?'_   Was the only thing her mind seemed capable of asking. Not how, not why, not where. None of that seemed to matter. Everything here seemed endless, timeless even.  

It only occurred to Daenerys now, that the shadows were here for her. Would that be how Nyx would leave her? Alone, in the dark, waiting for a rescue that would never come? She called for help, yet her voice merely echoed around her. Hopelessly lost in an endless dark, endlessly cold place. A man emerged from the shadows as a yellow, crumbling skeleton. His form was shifting, deceptive, impossible to grasp for more than a second. His features would change: a raven's beak appearing where once there had been a human skull, a wolf's fangs replacing simple, comparatively useless teeth. He came towards her slowly, steadily. A creeping pace that closed in around her soul with the darkness in which she had been left.

She looked back towards whence the small purple light had gone; seeming to be her only hope of salvation. In the distance she saw it, hovering over a castle covered in snow. A small white light joined the purple in the horizon as the skeletal man extended a hand for her to take. Hopelessness descended upon her as she saw a small dancing of the lights on the horizon.

In the cold, she felt the heat emanating from the hand. A radiance promising comfort, home, safety. She walked towards the skeletal man, wanting more of the warmth. A handsome face slid over his features which made the skeleton come to life. He looked inviting, pleased to see her. She continued her approach cautiously, gaining both momentum and courage as she went. She knew the handsomeness was a deception, a simple guise, yet she no longer cared. She wanted it to disappear. All of it.

Daenerys no longer wanted to remain in the dark. She arrived before, looking up to see his handsome face; her head being level with his shoulders. 

Daenerys moved to put her hand in his, before having it swatted by purple light. The man shifted his face abruptly, and a terrible look crossed his features as he took in the intruder. He lashed out at the small orb, yet it escaped through his fingers. Daenerys now back away, looking around to see the white light chasing away the shadows. 

Her heart sped up, her mind racing, still not understanding anything of what was happening. The white lights eminence was pure, holy, like a small sun fighting for dominion over the great dark surrounding them. The light approached the man, his features twisted into a grin upon the sight.

He lashed out again, and this time, the light was struck; almost falling before being caught it's purple brother. So different, yet mirrors of each other. The white light tried hopelessly to drive away the man, somehow being the head of the shadows. A small thread of light passed from the purple to the white, increasing its glow as former orb settled at her side, having saved its brother. The splendid purple colour faded as the thread passed from purple to white. The orb of her former companion grew smaller, fainter, it's colour fading to a steely grey as it settled on her shoulder.

The thread had spun around the white light, increasing its size. It was now twice its former size, splendid and imposing. The moment the thread broke and the now-grey orb settled the white light erupted, bathing the place and obliterating the shadows. The handsome, imposing man's face melted away revealing nothing but a shadow behind the handsome facade. The shadow reeled against the light struggling, hopelessly to claw its way over to where she had settled.

Another eruption from the same source drove the last darkness away, leaving her with the warmth and safety she had previously desired. 

When the light faded once more, she saw that she was now alone; yet she did not feel the cold. She no longer felt weak, no longer vulnerable. The bright white light of the eruption had now faded to a dull, foggy grey. Looking through the fog towards the horizon she saw two glowing grey eyes staring back at her. The eyes were ferocious, wolven yet patient. Gazing at her not unkindly; not hostile. No, to her, they were gentle, patient, yet only when they needed to be. They held an offer; one that was cryptic and terrible; a sacrifice made out of need, not desire.

The very last thing Daenerys would see this night, was a three-eyed raven staring towards the eyes intently, purposefully; cawing a fleeting message at the wolf before she felt the mattress under her back:

"Fly or die."

 

* * *

**No one**

* * *

 

As the given name of Nyx slowly faded to the wind, the fogs tightened around her like an old cloak. What would mostly be considered bleak and disheartening whether had slowly become an old friend she was pleased to reacquaint herself with.

It was a comforting blanket which served many purposes. Not only to hide the many ways in which their order would serve both the city and the deity come nightfall, it was also a significant advantage. Avoiding attention from both friend and foe when sight was limited to the nearest of vicinities was a trivial effort. An accomplishment doable for even the greenest of assassins.

No one felt her lungs expanding as the damp, saturated air of fog filled her lungs, its moist presence pressing down upon anyone in its vicinity. Though the haze made for terrible conditions for exercise, the fog in and of itself, would aid anyone in the activity of fleeing. _Hard to run, simple to run away._

The vapour grew thicker and the flickering lights in the Braavosi windows faded in orange hues under its oppressive, latent presence. As a result, the many lights illuminating the city became visible to anyone who cared to pay attention at such times. Braavos itself seemed to be constantly reminding her of the little ironies and contradictions, which permeate anything and everything if only one would look closely enough.

Much of perception was based that way. A million things mingling through the mind, only discovered if one opened their mind sufficiently. This same applied to the senses. Thus, the footsteps in her stuck out like a sore thumb in the otherwise quiet alley.

The steps were even, measured and quiet. The footsteps, almost mechanical in nature, were a trivial effort to decipher.

“You need not sneak, sister. You are aware I’ll hear you regardless.” The mechanical footsteps stopped, only to be resumed in the same rhythm yet larger volume. Boots against cobblestone was hard to overhear when no other distractions were in place, especially for a faceless one.

“How did you know it was me?” Came the cool quiet voice, now at her side.

“Your steps, sister. They are regular, too regular; with high and uncomfortable steps. Most would avoid such effort.” She left out how very distinct her boots and quietude of steps were. Such were the things that were offered to a blind girl. It was little, yet enough in most cases.

The Waif merely sighed in response, she had always condemned the flamboyant ways of she and her Lorathi mentor.

“I see the dragon has made it home safe, regardless of the attention she draws.” The Waif offered.

“Indeed,” The Stranger sighed, “I was helpfully informed she had come between a rock and a hard place.”

“And you just happened to be in a position to help?” Her sister questioned, “Was your well-timed rescue merely coincidental?”

“There are no coincidences, sister. Only the illusion of such.”

“You are dodging the question.” The Waif objected.

“How very perceptive of you; so let’s change the subject.” The Stranger smiled. The Waif sighed, giving up any chance of a clear answer.

There were many types of informers around the city, yet most were under the employ of either the Iron Bank or The Elder of their very order. Finding out how she even knew of Daenerys’ presence would require the openness she craved, yet would not receive. At least not on this night.

“I worry for you, sister.” A dark brow rose in turn. “You hardly sleep, if ever, you study like a mad-woman, spit in the face of the wind and meddle in affairs above and beyond that of most faceless. Standing directly opposed to a possible ruler of Westeros comes with great risk.”

Dark brows furrowed, “You mean to say that I am being reckless?”

“Do not twist my words,” The Waif objected. “You provide cause for concern, that is all. We have before seen servants of death very similar to yourself; few of them last very long.” She deadpanned, awaiting a reaction that would never come. 

The faceless women both let their scars fade to smoke as they entered the slightly crowded marketplace; The Stranger now doing so with noticeably less effort than The Waif. They would not want undue attention this night. The market squares kept buzzing throughout the hour of the wolf, and deep, angry scars were hardly common on women’s faces. Let alone those who wandered the streets during the night. The Stranger had a sense that there was more to the Waif's premeditated meeting than mere health-advocacy.

The Moon Pool arose in the distance as they continued their pacing; The Stranger took a sharp right turn towards what could only be the Blue Lantern. The Waif sighed as she hastened her steps to reach her companion. Announced by the rusty screech of old hinges, the wooden door gave way to the sharp lights of the Inn, which provided an abrupt change from the gloom of the streets.

Lana jumped as soon as she caught sight of the new arrivals and rushed towards The Stranger in greeting. She was quickly embraced, as the smaller woman’s smile was refreshed. Lana provided a stark contrast to the sharp tongue of her faceless friend, yet they had been friends since her first time in The Secret City. The Faceless Woman’s unusual friend was always a source of warmth, with easy smiles for anyone who had the simple decency of returning the courtesy.

Lana broke from the hug to look up at her friend. “Cata, your scars?” She questioned while raising a hand to trace her features.

The Cat merely shrugged; a smirk flowing readily to her features. “Oh, I thought I’d leave them at home tonight.” The young barmaid seemed both perplexed and amazed all at once.

“Though I am sure I could make them return if that was for your preference.” Her reassurance was teasing, even a little barbed.

The sharpness of the comment went unnoticed as the young woman shook her head breaking her stupor. “No! Not at all! You look beautiful Cata. More so than you usually do.”

A clearing of the throat ran through the air behind The Cat. A dark brow rose as grey eyes shifted their attention towards its origin. 

Lana realised the situation simultaneously and muttered a small apology before directing them towards a bench. They each sat down as another maid approached them with a small smile.

“Anything you’d like, loves?” Came the bawdy, even flirting voice as the maid arrived at their table.

The Cat glanced up at maid from where she sat on the bench, “Whisky,” she said, emphasising with her hand as a smile slid to her features, “I want the strongest you’ve got.”

Her companion frowned, “Nothing for me, thank you.” The barmaid scuttled, weaving between the patrons in order that the refreshment may be served. “I hope you are not planning to get tipsy in here.”

The Cat looked down at her companion, “Now now, sister, don’t be cross. Refreshment is needed after a day’s work, most would say.”

“Most don’t live past their thirtieth name day.”

The Cat stretched her limbs as the barmaid returned with a tankard in hand, “And I intend to join them. Moreover, I can guarantee that their lives, while shorter, will be infinitely more interesting than that of the man who never takes any chances.”

She took a sip from the recently acquired beverage and set it back on the table. The golden liquid scalded her throat and she flexed the gloved hand holding the tankard in response.

The Cat leant back on her on her pillowed bench and raised an eyebrow at The Waif. “So, tell me why you decided to join me?” It was a polite demand, posed as a question; the same way the masters of their order would pose inquiries to each other.

“You don’t think I would merely seek you out in a vain attempt to discourage you from your recklessness?” The Waif questioned, her expression now probing, challenging.

“No.” The Cat answered simply, her Braavosi accent making the words dance in her mouth. “You could have done that anywhere. You would not have needed to follow me to the inn either, was that the case. Don’t lie, sister, you hate drinking in a tavern almost as much as you despise disorganised phials and chemicals.”

The Waif sighed. “Even while exhausted and tipsy there is no deceiving you, is there?”

“No. Now tell me why you came here. Patience has never been my strong suit.”

The Waif sighed, now running a hand through her short tresses; The Stranger noted the seeming appropriation of her own habit. Storing it away in the deep recesses of her mind. Only the gods would know what information may or may not be useful.

“There have been several developments over the last time. An acquaintance of Arya Stark has come to The Secret City in search of her. The man, Gendry Waters, was sent by The King in The North and seems determined to find her.”

The laziness of The Cat of the Canals melted away, subsequently leaving The Stranger to take her place. “Will he find her?” She questioned.

“Only if Arya Stark wishes to be found.”

The Stranger nodded her understanding. “Will he be greeted as friend or foe?”

“Friend. So long as he remains within bounds of what is deemed acceptable.” The Waif said with finality.

“Very well. What else has occurred?” The Stranger probed.

“A very honoured guest has arrived at our docks recently. One High Priestess to The Lord of Light. She goes by the name of Kinvara. She is very powerful and hardly one to trifle with.” The Waif became even more serious, though few thought that to be possible, emphasising the importance of the news.

“She has settled in a small flat near The Purple Habour. She is slowly building a network of informers around the city; no doubt in retaliation of our meddling in their affairs.”

The Stranger sighed and parroted The Waif’s stolen habit. “We are naturally thwarting her efforts?” She questioned.

“Naturally. Yet we would be wise to let any intervention of ours go unnoticed for the time being. She has much influence amongst the church and in extension the wealthy of the city. We would not have the Iron Bank be cross with us.”

“Of course.” The Stranger took another sip of her beverage. “I shall see what I can do. The velvet gloves for these occurrences, I suppose? I doubt we desire to anger the King in The North either.”

“Precisely; which was why I wished to approach you about this in your… habitat.”

“Very well,” The Stranger concluded. “You have my leave if you are finished. I doubt you would want to tarry any longer, least of all in this place.”

“Thank you, yes.” The Waif answered, fishing in her pockets to place two Braavosi Titans on the wooden table. “It’s on The House.”

The Stranger winked in return, as The Waif turned to escape her torment through their original point of entry. As her first companion left her, her second now returned.

“I never do understand what it is you two talk about…” Lana said; her voice projecting bewilderment, confusion.

The Cat now smiled up at her friend, her grey eyes shining ever so slightly in the candlelight. “I believe _that_ is the point.”

“Would you like a second round?” Lana asked her friend kindly. The Cat considered refusing for a brief moment before contemplating the road ahead of her to get home. She concluded her thoughts with a soft sigh as one of her rare smiles still remained on her features, before giving her friend a small nod of acquiescence.

As Lana left, The Cat took notice of the other patrons spread evenly across the room. It had become an odd thing when none would glance at her distrustfully like they normally would. The bar patrons shuffling away; ultimately leaving a large gap between her and the rest of the inn. A strange combination of admiration, fear, and disgust on each man. The look of pride, admiration and sometimes even wonder, sprinkled with weariness and respect from most women and children.

The realities that are known by each being equally valid, yet vastly different at the same time. Like fragments of a picture; only completed by being stuck together. The lines between each being seamless and obscure. Committing relative evil to do relative good…  While hardly ideal, the predicament is preferable to its flipped reflection.

Faceless men, however, were impartial to such valuation, the product of which being obscure and redundant by their position. The moral constructs being of little value, as their core beliefs were largely nihilistic. _Men were seldom of value in and of themselves, yet could be employed or manipulated to gain such._ Such was inherent in the statement: _Valar Morghulis._ To add perspective, suggesting that value may indeed be possible and present in life, came the other side of the coin: _Valar Dohaeris_. Conclusively, men inevitably serve, whether they would or would not like to; the only alternative that is possible being encompassed in the former. Thus, it provided a simple, yet universal concept.

Judgements of the actions which the faceless may commit lay closer to home for those viewing from the outside, though the effects of the judged actions would be both imperceivable and most often confusing for the viewer. It was therein the problem could be found: Being an observer without the transparency for investigation. As such, nearly all the opinions and judgements cast upon The House of Black and White were all permeated with assumptions, prejudgments and anecdotes. For in the absence of graspable tenants to cling to, opinions were formed abruptly and indiscriminately.

It was for this very reason, that a consistent, predictable, and loyal friend, such as the now-approaching Lana, was not only useful, but also something treasured for faceless such as herself. Though a faceless would never go out of their way to start any form of legitimate friendship, few skewed from it. Her earlier companion belonging to the group encompassed by those few.

Lana placed the refilled mug on the wooden table in front of her. The Cat of the Canals fished inside her own robes, before adding her own two silver coins to the ones already on the table. Lana pocketed the two coins and scooted into the place of her previous companion.

“Time off?” The Cat questioned. Her tone inflecting curiosity, deliberately so. She took a sip from the beverage, the scalding heat returning once more.

Lana quietly murmured her assent; knowing it would be heard by her faceless companion. “Tavern’s practically running itself these days with all the help you managed to bring.”

“Is the money good enough? You won’t have to lay off some of the surplus workers?” The Cat questioned, her eyes now guarded.

Lana smiled at her friend’s concern, “Not at all. With how eagerly and efficiently the folk you keep sending here work, we can afford to expand. Should it get too crowded here, we could quickly get the money for another tavern to run alongside this one.”

The Cat nodded slowly, taking another sip from her drink. “Thank you, Lana, truly.”

As the night continued on, patrons came and went. The Cat's second drink was her last one of this night, as Lana had time to indulge her in the rare conversation ranging all from business, friends and even romantic interests alike. When Lana was nearing the end of her questions, The Cat looked towards the eastern window from beneath her lashes and frowned.

"What troubles you Cata?" Lana asked, now worryingly.

The Cat merely tipped her head towards the growing orange glow that marked the start of each day. In the distance, The Titan roared, as Lana realised for how long she had kept her friend. She gasped as her eyes widened, while The Cat merely gazed at her comedically.

"I am so sorry Cata, you must be so tired! Would you want to spend some hours in one of our rooms?"

The Cat cocked her head to the side, an ironic, even sardonic smile now painting her features, "Thank you Lana, but no. I am fine."

"But you haven't slept a single minute!" Her friend objected.

Now, The Cat's smile grew a little in its sadness, yet still, she maintained the pleasant facade. The Cat's voice was now quiet, smooth, secretive. As if the statement was a curse towards the ancient powers whilst in their very presence. 

"Some duties never end, old friend. I would pray that you should not end in the same predicament, yet I fear the gods would do very little to help you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first in series of chapters I now have the time to write. This was a short one, with quite a lot of foreshadowing and a tad bit of mysterious imagery. I kind of just got a symbolic idea for the events there will be upcoming, and I sort of just ran with it... Let me know if it worked or if it was too strange ;D
> 
> I understand if you guys don't enjoy the first part this chapter as much as the previous ones. Most of this part is very nebulous and has many meanings and interpretations. Have fun dissecting it, if you wish! There are many references to many different things. All these will be picked up upon, naturally. This is the first link our Arya will have to Westeros, requiring her to take part in more and more political events, despite The Faceless men wanting to keep out of politics.


	9. Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings dear readers!
> 
> Oh golly, suddenly Christmas is here and freezing my ears off before I knew any better! Regardless, I have been gone for far too long, and I have only myself and my busy schedule to blame. I thought you should have a little Christmas treat to wake up to (if I may allow myself to call it such).
> 
> I know you are all waiting for answers, and do not fret - for I have many answers to give. But this will be spread out in multiple chapters, so as not to overcrowd the text and build suspense. I hope everyone has had an excellent holiday season with excellent presents, visits from family, friends etc!
> 
> Anyway, here you have the chapter (more notes by the end)!

##  **Missandei**

The cool morning breeze rustled the papers lying on her table, as the soft pitter-patter of rain falling accompanied the wind through the small open window. Distinct from the rain, which had fallen steadily throughout the morning, were the occasional sounds of boots against the cobblestones and occasional gravel which defined the streets where the scribe was employed.

Sometimes a few of the downtrodden people which had been sent to her in the hopes of finding their role in the expansive Braavosi economy would wave at her in passing as their enriched living-conditions were displayed upon their figures. As she had been a former slave herself, nothing felt more luxurious than being safe and sheltered from the rain, with solid leathery boots to protect one’s feet. Such were the luxuries few slaves could even dream of. Most slaves held in the free cities would employ wraps of linen around their feet to protect against the most deceptive of sharp stones from breaking their skin. Though it hardly served as much protection from the rough ground, it was certainly preferable to bare feet most would start off with.

As such, the hard click of a boot against stone was a wondrous sound for any and all who started their journey from the bottom. The Braavosi economy, being diverse in its all aspects and needing all kinds of labour proved a safe ladder for most to climb. The homeless street urchins would most often have ended in their position due to some personal misfortune. For some, the odds were merely stacked against them. For others, they would be left the struggle for themselves by families who either would or could not provide for them. The remaining population of street-dwellers would all have different stories, yet connected in communities the lived in Braavos’ nooks and crannies. Most of them were the people who simply chose the lack of any permanent residence. The appeal of sleeping under the sky, with no belongings except the clothes on your body and the contents of your backpack was not lost on Missandei, yet it was a life devoid of the very purpose which she had sought after.

The life of a freed slave was a difficult one. The masters understood efficiency. They understood division. As such, each slave was trained for one specific purpose, and very little else. Therefore, it always proved troublesome, when former slaves were to enter the workforce. It was a difficult choice for the slaves: Do what you have been forced to do your whole life, or train from the ground up to become someone else. The majority would choose the former since it proved less toilsome and expensive. One would need significant resources to receive the training needed to enter a new field. Resources a slave would seldom find themselves in possession of. Missandei herself was given the same choice once she was freed. A small merchant ship would come by, and cram as many slaves as they could into the hull of the ship where the goods used to be. Before anyone would notice, the ship would quickly set sail for the Secret City. A small race to see who first made it to the titan. As it stands, no ship led by the slave masters ever managed to reach the titan before Braavos’ own. Once inside the city, slave tattoos would be burned off, new clothes would be given, and now, a place in the Braavosi workforce would be found for the now-freed men and women. In the case of children being smuggled away, they would be placed in the care of a family who had the means and understanding to help the child.

All such things happened to Missandei when she first arrived at the Secret City, and now it was her orchestrating where these newcomers would find their place. One evening, during some late hours of translation work, Missandei had heard a few swift knocks on her door. On the other side, she was confronted with a nightmare wearing a smile. The chill that ran down still gave her shudders in reminiscence. These were the sorts of nightmares – ghosts even – that Missandei had been taught to fear her whole life. Yet, despite the awkward silence and what could only have been a stupefied look on herself, the nightmare continued the friendly, empty smile that had adorned its face since she opened the door. The nightmare was wrapped in a heavy cloak masking the robed figure beneath, the stormy grey eyes, of which the smile would never extend to, glinting in the silvery moonlight. The street outside the threshold to her small house was wet, still dripping as the steady rain continued to pour upon the ghoul’s wet cloak.

“Might a girl come in?” She asked, not at all unkindly. The voice was not the raspy, harsh tones one would expect from such unnatural beings, yet was smooth as the finest silk. Normally such voices would hardly reach anyone’s ears during a rainy evening, but it passed through the air like a hot knife through butter. “A ghoul’s eye is always watchful,” the masters used to tell her. And if any of the things they told her were true, she could not pretend that she had not heard what was said, given her very clear reaction. Any farmer’s boy running a casual errand would have no trouble spotting her shrinking back into the doorway when the frugal words were uttered. Missandei took a deep breath, moving away from the portal to the outside world – this time deliberately – as to hear what had the girl visiting her meagre residence during the ungodly hours they found themselves under.

As the ghoul entered, she glanced briefly around her residence calmly; evaluating and assessing the assets that Missandei had eventually come upon following her work as a translator. She soon discovered the papers on the rough wooden desk where she would carry out the translator duties – most often between trading partners – to ensure that communication was clear and not misunderstood. She walked over to the desk just as calmly as she had glanced around the room and studied first the wood with her fingers, and proceeded to give her work residing above it the same treatment.

“Was there something you wanted?” Missandei questioned, summoning as much calm as she could muster. Even as her mind was screaming at her to storm out of the house, leaving behind the deathly stranger and all she brought with her; if she even was a woman in the first place, that was.

The woman did little to respond. She merely continued inspecting the surroundings that had been unlocked for her. The woman turned her eyes slowly towards Missandei, her eyes as impassive as when she first arrived at the door. The kind, half-smile that she arrived with settled back on her features. She would never have known that the girl was a ghoul, had the girl not worn their colours and their robes. It had happened in the past, that someone fascinated with the cult of death had tried to replicate their garments, only to find the whites and blacks stained with the blood of the man wearing it. The robes and cloak carried an authority in Braavos. An authority that feared, respected, and even admired, despite the cold, cunning ruthlessness those sentiments were built upon.

“We have a use for you.” The words were haunting, yet spoke of more than Missandei could ever ask for; since within hours of the cryptic declaration, two ravens appeared at her doorstep waiting for her to retrieve the messages they brought. One stayed, to her initial surprise, while the other one disappeared into the evening's mists as quickly as it appeared. Within the letters resided all the information she could possibly have wished for to decide whether she would or would not accept the aforementioned use. In retrospect, most would likely be prickly of the Ghoul’s way of addressing her, yet most in Braavos knew men were little but servants, yet between two servants trained to look death in the eye; manners mattered little. And although the Ghoul would doubtlessly be better at what they were both trained for, the connection made them kin, despite her previous self’s refusal to even consider this notion.

The second raven remaining was her option. Whether to refuse or accept the assignment carried by their black and white scrolls. The flourishing texts making the whole experience even more lucrative than most in Braavos would ever know. Yet now, the familiar caw of ravens told her another assignment in her new job was coming. And right she was when she heard the now-familiar two taps of the raven’s beak on her door. Walking slowly to the door and subsequently opening it, the raven released its hold on the letter and it fell softly into Missandei’s open hand. She looked at the medium-sized letter as she felt the wind of the raven’s wings bolting it out into the rain once more.

The faceless men knew the plight of a mind left to rot. How the days stretched on endlessly and turned meaningless; continuous even. How a year could pass and one could not differentiate it from a single day. This was why they showed up at her doorstep, introducing her as the backbone to handle the prerequisites and fallouts of their many accomplishments, or so she liked to believe. A lot of work and thought went into managing the city’s affairs and new arrivals. Doing so under the banner of black and white only made the security she was promised with her job all the more convincing. Though her new – more expansive – home was situated at the docks, none would dare approach her home as they did before. Even when raiders came to Braavos’ shores, not a single one of their horde dared set foot near her, and they were hastily repelled and flushed out from the gutters of the city. For the faceless were renowned and feared throughout the world, and those who even dared approach Braavos with hostile intentions all had their own ideas of how they would handle the infamous assassins. Few survived further than to the very shores surrounding the city.

How one managed to lay such thoughtful and calculating devastation as the faceless were renowned for, was beyond what Missandei could imagine. Hers was a mind for logistics, language and mathematics. The complexities of war that the faceless employed could not be studied or read in any book. Most knew they were responsible when unsavoury people would suddenly disappear, yet only the guild themselves knew the factors of what, when, where, why and even how anything would happen. She would continue to ponder the secretive guild that she somehow became entangled with in the future, yet for now, she had a job to do. She sat down on the padded chair by her desk – the luxury she had acquired through her servitude readily apparent to her and unwrapped the letter from its silken seal. The writing on the page was the same black on white as she was used to, with the exact same flowing script she had allowed herself to become so used to.

_Valar Morghulis Lady Missandei,_

_A girl has Our most sincere of apologies for the intrusions on her sleep, yet it appears there is another matter that requires a girl’s attention._

Such would the letters always start. Through this, she had come to know the Ghoul as a definitive night owl, since all the correspondence she ever had with her had been during the dark hours of the night. Even now, with the rain trickling down outside her window in the darkest night she had seen in her lifetime, she was glad that she worked the hours that suited her the best. And though she was anything but a lady, the code of respect the House had for its servants would always make itself known through their writings.

_We have come in need of a residence within the quiet parts of Braavos. We ask that you find suitable lodgings within the city. The allotment will be expected to have room for up to three individuals with a working space for each. The coin will be provided for the services as usual, and all the expenses you should come by will be covered._

This was somewhat of an unusual assignment. She often tended to the finding of homes needed for the new arrivals at the port, yet it hardly ever came to pass, that a faceless one should need lodgings within the city. She would often assign, for herself, the use that the faceless ones would need her services for. She was never correct, yet that was entirely beside the point. It was in order to keep the mind at ease and deafen the need to explore and investigate what this most interesting of guilds were doing and why they needed her help. Finding out would be harder than forcing questions from a brick wall with one’s bare hands. It was a retreat from madness.

There was, however, a second part of the message. One holding possibility, not a demand or a promise. It was nothing but a mere suggestion, yet the cryptic nature of the words and the appeal for investigation was beyond anything Missandei could have hoped for in this vast, expansive world of twisting and churning mystery.

_In the Purple Harbour resides a young and highly-sought girl with an elderly, honourable man within a house guarded by a great sanguine door. The girl is of significant origin and her wellbeing is of great concern to Us. A guild would advise a girl to go and see her for yourself and ponder if she may be deserving of your attention. We suspect you might have a significant interest in common, despite quite opposing origins. Mayhaps, this will lead a girl onto a path she would wish to walk. If such is the choice; to explore the options which lay ahead, slight caution and manners are advised._

_Best regards,_

_No One._

* * *

 

##  **The Stranger**

No One was reading once more when her recruiter came to her. The Lorathi appeared in the doorway and gazed into the intertwined mess of books which surrounded her in her room with a fleeting expression of surprise.

“A girl usually keeps her room tidy.” He said, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as his eyes cruised around her room before settling back on her. The golden irises were shadowed in the darkness of the corridor, his figure almost wholly dark against the candle facing his back from the narrow corridor.

“A girl believes our order needs better discipline. A girl has had a lot of reading to do recently, and no person in this temple knows to knock on a girl’s door before they seek to enter it.” The Stranger said from the small chair she was reclining on. Her brows furrowed slightly, “A man’s book is not exactly easy to decipher.”

The Lorathi clicked his tongue in response, “Stop whining, lovely girl.” his classic smirk spread across his features as the words spilt from his lips. Despite the barbed nature of the comment, the cheeky smile and the deep, soothing nature of his voice revoked all offence that could be taken. She was lost on what to say and chose, instead, to merely sigh at the black, magical book still resting in her hands.

By the small swish and the dull thud, the leather book closed its pages. She placed the book on the shelf all her books previously resided in. Now, it was the sole inhabitant of the old and lonely piece of furniture. It was a matter of time, she knew before the old bookcase would collapse in on itself. The intricate wooden beams and bolts eventually giving way to the incessant march of time which would be the fate of all things. Nevertheless, she turned her eyes from the object of the past to the individual who propelled her towards the very future she was in now.

Her own grey eyes met his as she cocked her head to the side, “Where have you come to ferret me away to this time?” The Lorathi moved slowly, cautiously into her room. His robe was slightly dusty at the hem, likely because the older members of the House of Black and White knew the old labyrinthian tunnels which ran under the city and interconnected every significant part of Braavos to the Isle of Faces. He came to a stop just in front of her and put his hand lightly on her left shoulder.

“A sister confided in a man that a lovely girl does not sleep.” His eyes had now taken on an imploring and cautious look; searching her own irises for answers, imploring her soul for honesty.

“A girl has said. She has had a lot of work to do.” Her voice emerged slowly, the same tone that she had strived to replicate for so very long. The calm, warm voice she had always adored in her childhood. The Lorathi hummed in response, nodding subtly as his voice, the very model of which she strived to acquire, reached her ears. So very often, would the voices within the temple walls be those of the suffering; their last gasps of breath and sobs marking the struggle to accept or deny the end they journeyed to the temple to receive.

The very last service these unfortunate people would find was the gentle treatment of faceless, aiding them in the acceptance of their demise. And none were better for this task than The Lorathi himself. His gentle, yet handsome features and calm, soothing voice laying rest to the nerves threatening to spasm in the wake of the most unnatural and drastic of acts one could commit to oneself. Perhaps that was what separated humans from most animals. The most loyal of wolves could suffer as much any human when their packmate should die. And while this may make the beast more likely to act carelessly, they would never throw themselves on the sharp horns of a stag willingly; if not for a sacrifice for the remainder of the pack. An act of martyrdom to ensure the survival of what it holds dear and wishes to protect.

“Nevertheless, neglecting it will not end well.” The bronze eyes in front of her were glazed with worry, his forehead creasing slightly in conjunction with the sentiment. For a minute, she allowed herself to pretend that the emotions were real; his and hers alike. For in the end; it is all a game - and they must never stop playing – for humanity’s eyes were yet to open.

“He won’t stop demanding from us, no?” She allowed herself to ask the question, curiosity came easy, in this world that seemed to keep expanding as opposed to herself which seemingly shrunk in significance as insight was offered and seldom refused. “Indeed,” he murmured softly, “and that is the origin of our play.” His hand had slowly moved from her shoulder to her arm. Unnoticed. The Lorathi now withdrew his soft touch and summoned a small package from inside his robes.

He sighed softly as surprise bloomed on her features. He handed over the small hard leather package to her carefully. Somehow, she felt this object was fragile and precious before she had even dared to investigate the contents of the small box. As she opened the lid she was surprised at the contents. It was a small black leather band with a small clear jewel attached to it. She looked up to the person who gifted her this most unorthodox of items.

“A man wanted to help a girl with her mission. Fret not, lovely girl, it is not merely an adornment.” He purred. She looked back towards the small necklace, seemingly too small for her. The Stranger reached out for the jewel with her hand, and the crystal began to glow a distinct purple. The air from her lungs escaped softly without her consent. It was the very same glow as her swords sported when she relieved them of their sheaths.

“What is it good for, Jaqen?” Her slow and calm façade had been thrown slightly off, and a self-satisfied smile spread instantaneously on his features. He took back the box and removed the choker from its box as he moved to stand behind her. She noticed the crystal glowing red as he moved behind her and wondered briefly about its significance.

“It is a magical pendant. A third eye, if you will. Even the greatest of mirrors have their blind spots and mysteries they cannot breach. This will help a lovely girl’s eyes to see.” She felt a warm buzzing feeling in her neck for a second before she saw the choker adjust itself snugly yet comfortably around her neck. The jewel changed colour once more from The Lorathi’s crimson to her own dark purple. The light soon faded, and the glow changed to a dark purple, an almost black colour which now glinted softly as the candlelight struck it.

She reminded herself of the image of the dead aristocrats littered in Braavos’ streets and gasped as her own sight was replaced with a sight that she once remembered. The image started out as murky and unclear, where it went on to morph and change into a phantom of the sight she saw before. She dismissed the image from her mind and her vision was brought back to her small, messy room. “This is… extraordinary,” The Stranger’s voice was now low, a new thought gracing her mind. “Jaqen, would you happen to know what has become of our Handsome brother since he returned home?”

The Lorathi raised a single eyebrow in response, they were then furrowed deeply and excessively. “A man thought he was the handsome one.” He put a hand on his chest in mock offence. The Stranger shook her head, chuckling, “A man is avoiding the question.” She commented.

He sobered up quickly from the joke. Far faster than she chose to. “A man is afraid he is unable to tell you this thing. For knowledge that is not present cannot be shared.”

The Stranger tutted at him, looking down at him despite his superior height, “Ah, it seems a girl has encountered a sore spot; a section of knowledge which not even The Lorathi himself is privy to!”

A smirk wound its way across his features, “Do pray tell then, lovely girl; what is our brother up to?”

She looked at him, now condescendingly, “Does a man think a girl would waste time asking him such a thing were she in the possession of the knowledge herself?”

The man in front of her shook his head, before sighing softly. The secret sign that only she knew about, which foretold a digression to a different topic. She was tempted to keep him there, struggling to account for why she had yet to see him after his gory entrance into the temple. It had taken the poor Braavosi Acolytes several days to scrub the mess he left on the floor and his clothes clean. He was indeed a man who liked to make grand displays. Something she would have to keep in mind for her future meeting with Kinvara. It was unlikely that the woman would be pleased with the outcome that had materialised due to her initiation. Yet Kinvara would luckily not be privy to that information, as long as she would not read it in her eyes. Utmost caution should indeed be undertaken to prohibit this eventuality. Her mind caught up with the situation before it developed, such that she would not miss whatever it was he had to say.

“There are dark times coming, lovely girl. Dark times, with dire consequences. And thus, there is something you must see. But not today. For now, a girl should visit the coroner of Braavos. His name is Edward Sleet, you should find him near the Sweetwater River between Silty Town and the Fishmarket. He knows of your coming and will inform you of any remaining relevant details as to your inquiry.

“What if I need a man’s guidance in this?” She asked, the uncertainty displayed by the subtle biting of her lower lip. The Lorathi took a step to the side and tapped his own bottom lip. A reminder not to re-establish the old habit and a hidden assurance of the lack of need to worry.

“A man doubts this thing. A girl has received all the training she needs to accomplish this goal.” He inclined his head slightly, “If a girl was to need a man’s assistance, he would be aware and act before the desire would even enter a girl’s waking mind.”

The pupil in front of him sighed. While her ascension to a fully-fledged faceless one had happened some time ago at this point, there was still training and conditioning left to share with her before she could be accepted as one of their masters. This was also why the tension in her shoulders rarely left her. She was always ready; prepared to face whatever trial she would surely be confronted with. Yet the Lorathi had a feeling some time would pass before she would meet her final test. She had certainly come far, and so too did she seek to finally embrace the shadows along with the rest of the masters. _No. A girl is not ready._

As he watched The Stranger leave the cluttered room, he let out another sigh as he focused what power had been granted to him; power granted at its own special expense. The retreating Stranger would have to pay this very same price. They all would. Yet this was what they had been ordained to do; _to_ _become._ As her form vanished into the winding corridors of the temple, he muttered a select few silent words as crimson energy flowed from his body. It wrapped itself around the mess that the student had made of their own quarters and beaconed them to arrange themselves in their assorted places. The books and trinkets acknowledged his request and assorted themselves steadily like an assembly of young temple acolytes gathering for training. Disciplined, yet steady. Items moving; flowing like a river streaming upwards until it reached its goal.

He knew this would be a convenience The Stranger would extort from him the second she learned of its existence, yet it would do little good to introduce too much convenience. For convenience was the root to contentment. And contentment is the largest contender, along with a lack of any incentive, to approach sloth. A status hard to recover from; especially in their trade. And was this not the very nature of life? Inconvenience slowly overcome through one’s life with the help of innovative methods, either developed by oneself or those around you. If only everyone remembered that everything comes at a price.

As the clutter was returned to its allotted location, the glowing red energy began syphoning itself back into his body. He felt his body heat up in reaction, not even realising how cold one could easily become this way. The cold addictive thrill shot down his spine once more when all of the energy had returned to its temporary source. With the completion of the service that had not been bartered for, he went on to look for The Elder of their order. It was about time The Stranger would wake.

* * *

 

##  **Daenerys Targaryen**

The grey dreary day loomed outside the window she was currently facing. That is not to say, that there is any likelihood of a more cheerful view from the opposite vantage point. She had indulged in her morning breakfast some time ago, and Ser Willem still looked positively eager to inquire about the new mysterious cloak displayed in the wardrobe. In fairness, Dany had scarcely had the time to create any plausible for its existence on her person. Jorah had been quick to inquire about it; seeing as he correctly judged that it would hardly be something she had a propensity to wear, and seeing the old and grizzly knights puzzled gaze only made him grow all the more suspicious.

As hard as it was for Daenerys to admit, she cared little for the two knights’ opinion on its presence. She was still coming to grips with the implications of the meeting herself. She would have rationalised it as a fantasy, had the evidence not hanged in the wardrobe for any inquiring eye to see.

The exiled princess decided that staying cooped up in the shelter Ser Willem’s home once again offered her would do her little good. It would help her tremendously to have concrete answers. Something to grasp unto. Mayhaps she would be as lucky as to interrupt Nyx from her daily misdoings. That would buy her questions to ask, though she had little to no idea of the answers she would receive in turn.

Dany compelled the laziness which seemed to plague every morning and summoned the will to get changed into attire suitable for her excursion into the city. She had expected to throw on whatever clothes first met her eye. Yet when considering the sort of meeting she was hoping for, her eyes were first drawn to the most formal garb she still owned before being disappointed in herself. Nyx was a ghoul, not a western noblewoman. She would respect capability, strength and practicality. Not attire that was meant to be seen rather than used.

The attire she settled with was an ironic combination of black and white. A small black coat of embroidered silk layered with black leather. Inside the coat, a simple white shirt that rose in a subtle collar above the coat. The pants followed the same trend of soft black material, with a thin white stripe running down the sides. The attire surprisingly complemented her platinum curls which spread out along her shoulders and flowed down her back reaching the bottom of shoulder blades. _This would do._

She was, expectedly confronted by the two grizzly knights as she moved to leave the house. She deflected as best as her intuition allowed her, and fled the home with the black and white cloak flowing from her shoulders once more. When she escaped the confines and was confronted with the weather painted with the colour of Nyx’s irises, she heard the caw of a raven from high above and reminisced of the marvel in the faceless one’s entrance. _The woman certainly had a mind for spectacle._

As she began walking down the streets an array of black feathers interrupted her. It seemed the raven did more things than merely cawing at her, as it presented a small letter tied around its foot. It was absurd, yet she somehow felt the message was addressed to her person. She carefully patted the raven on the head, asking for permission. The raven was cold and stared at her with deliberate black eyes, imploring her to relieve it of the attached message. She indulged in both herself and the raven’s wishes only to have her sentiment confirmed. She thanked the raven, silently wondering whether or not the courtesy was meaningless.

She pocketed the small scroll, which was accompanied by a small tag addressing her. This was how she knew this was not merely a badly trained raven which had flown astray. This was deliberate. Somehow. She fixated on a small alley that would afford her shelter and privacy as she would read the message.

Shelter was quick to greet her in the form the shadows of the alley, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to attempt to view the world through the eyes of faceless ones; always keeping to the shadows, weaving between perching above and hiding underfoot. For no other reason than to keep their dealings away from public view. She could not help but wonder why. _The faceless men have a complete monopoly on assassinations in the city. And their deeds were surprisingly accepted by the public. So why keep it hidden?_ Daenerys pushed through the thoughts plaguing her mind of late and focused her attention on the straight, even letter clasped in her hands. The letter was enclosed by a grey wax seal with a hooded man impressed unto it. _The symbol of the faceless,_ she recognised.

She moved to open it but quickly realised that the wax fitted better than she expected. Sighing dejectedly, she searched on her person for the small peeling knife she usually carried with her around the city. A quick search and some thinking revealed to her a problem. She had forgotten it at home. Daenerys huffed a quick breath, closing her eyes as she internally scolded herself for her carelessness. With reluctance clouding her mind, she began searching for any weapons in the cloak adorning her shoulders that Nyx may have left behind. She quickly came upon a small leather sheath, which contained a thin blade. Further inspection from Daenerys revealed multiple more of these blades adorning the sides of the cloak. The sheath relinquished its hold of the blade easily, revealing its wicked edge. Viewing the blade from the side of its edge, it became nigh on invisible. A hesitant finger approached the blade’s edge, fascination shining in the purple orbs of the owner of said finger. Upon the feathery touch, a small line of red ran softly across the fingertip, so slight that not a single sensation entered her conscious, despite watching the action playing out.

The blade offered little in the terms of a hilt to grip onto but was rather ended with two horizontal metallic lines. In addition to this, there was a finger-sized slot just under where the tiny blade began, revealing the proper way to hold it; or so she thought. Daenerys put her index finger through the slot and felt a small thrill tingling down her spine. Laying the edge against the thick wax seal, the material gave way at her mere suggestion of doing so, and the wind lifted the envelope just enough to reveal a glimmer of flowing script beneath it. Dany’s heart sped up, and her fingers shook a little as she tried to rid her fingers of the impossibly sharp weapon, her inexperience showing as she tried to return it to the place from where it came.

After she had juggled the knife into her pocket, earning her one or two additional scratches, she pulled the letter from the envelope. The letter read:

_Valar Morghulis Daenerys,_

_I would hope you have slept well and remain unharmed. One would presume many questions would come puzzling the mind at this time; and while the faceless would rather have people come to your own conclusions, I believe a degree of transparency is due. It is also likely that this … delivery ... raised even more of those questions. When a princess should thirst for answers, she will know where to look._

_Additionally, one friend may come to a princess’ residence in the near future. I feel you may have interests and goals in common. Hereby, a mutually agreed arrangement may well be attainable, and rest assured; she will pose even less of a threat to you than the knightly arrival of last night._

_I am sure I will see you soon,_

_Nyx._

A slight thrill ran through her spine along as the riddles and questions in her mind only seemed to multiply. A slight bounce now enhanced her steps as she moved on her way;  confidence making the legs seemingly move of their own accord. Moving through the city now, her confidence was only enhanced. People’s eyes widened, their heads bowing and bodies moving out of the way at the sight of Nyx’s cloak. From the shocked expressions of the Water Dancers, with their mouth slightly agape, to the young children gazing at her with admiration shining in their eyes like a thousand emeralds - Daenerys could not help but wonder what her life would be like, had she been an officiated member of the infamous guild. _Would she always be met with the admiration?_ Whether or not this would be the case, she would not be dissuaded from enjoying this moment.

 _Such was the power of the faceless,_ she presumed. A cloak shrouding their members in darkness and mystery both; ensnaring the souls of both the agents and onlookers alike. This cloak seemed not only to bring with it the most lethal of skills and deadly cunning to the people willing to offer their service to their god, but also protection, comfort, and freedom. _Even if this very cloak was the veil of death itself_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I wish you all happy holidays and wish you the best. 
> 
> I sincerely hope you all enjoyed these more calm chapters that will be taking place before we "floor it" - to use a colloquial term. The reviews and support I have received mean the world to me and continues to be the motivating factor keeping me pushing ahead. If you should have any questions, I will be more than happy to answer them as clear as I feel I can in the comments.
> 
> Thank you very much for taking the time out of your day to read my online ramblings,  
> \- Nuvian ;-)


End file.
